


Hide and Seek

by Kitmistry



Series: The H Files [1]
Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, FBI Agent Castiel (Supernatural), FBI Agent Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 17:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 59,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20118811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: When the pursuit of a serial killer leads to the murder of the agents working the case, FBI Assistant Director Bobby Singer knows he has to send the big guns in.Special Agents Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak are complete opposites—one a cocky ex-marine that shoots first, asks questions later, the other a serious, analytical cop. The only thing they have in common? They don’t play well with others. But when the killer sets his eyes on them, Dean and Castiel find themselves with no other choice but to rely on their rocky partnership to solve a crime with almost no evidence and an enigmatic message left behind.With only each other to trust, it’s a game against time before they become prey to the man they were supposed to be hunting—but sticking together might bring them closer than either had ever imagined.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 Destiel Harlequin Challenge.
> 
> Thank you to CMC, Deancebra and Sweetness47 for their help, and of course profound-boning, dusky-gold, and unforth, our mods for this challenge, for making this so much fun.
> 
> I was so excited I got this prompt to work with and I hope everyone has as much fun reading it as I had writing it.
> 
> Huge shoutout to [ EllenOfOz ](https://ellen-of-oz.tumblr.com/) and [ interstitial ](https://chiisana-sukima.tumblr.com/) for being my betas.

Duke Anderson

The street was completely empty when Duke parked in front of his apartment building, save for a grey cat searching for food among the trash that was overflowing from the dumpster down the road. 

His back popped when he stepped out of the car. Stretching, he groaned. He looked up and down the street before walking to his apartment. He really needed a hot shower to help him relax, otherwise he’d be spending the next few hours staring at his ceiling, too wound up to fall asleep. He shook his head as he calculated what time it would be by the time he was in his bed. Too damn late, that was for sure. 

The door of his apartment closed behind Duke before his hand had found the light switch on the wall. He fumbled blindly for a couple of seconds, cursing when he finally found it, but no light turned on in the hallway. Stupid light bulb must have burnt out again. That was just his luck. 

He sighed, throwing his keys in the small bowl by the side table (and missing) as he moved through the hallway in complete darkness. Good thing he’d lived in this house long enough to know where everything was. Bumping his knee on a sharp edge was the last thing he needed after a long day of work.

He reached his bedroom, turned on the lightswitch and again nothing happened. His first thought was that the power was out. But it couldn't be, the rest of the building had electricity.

He stopped dead in his tracks, hair at the back of his neck rising. Suddenly it didn’t feel like he was alone in the apartment anymore. He ran cold and then hot as his instincts kicked in, and he reached for the gun hidden in the back of his waistband. 

A body slammed into him and sent him tumbling on the floor before his fingers had a chance to close around the handle. Duke pushed himself up with a groan, hoping that the darkness was as much a disadvantage to the other guy as it was to him, only to be kicked in the gut with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

The unknown man—it had to be a man, judging from the strength behind the attacks—didn’t give Duke any time to retaliate, throwing two well-calculated punches before forcing Duke onto his stomach on the floor. 

Duke struggled against the knee that was placed on his back to keep him down, but he felt the assailant reach under his jacket for his gun, and he knew he was running out of time. He bent his knees and put all his strength behind his next move as he jerked upright, throwing the other man out of balance and off him, gun landing somewhere on the floor with a dull thud.

Duke knew that without light he had little chance of recovering it, so he wasted no time searching for it. Instead he twisted and reached behind him, for the side table where he kept his spare. There was movement behind him. The other man was almost on him, but Duke had the drawer open, reaching inside, hand closing around nothing, as the assailant finally grabbed him. 

The pain barely registered as a blade slashed Duke’s throat and warm blood spilled all over him. His hand flailed uselessly, trying to stop the bleeding, even as Duke realized it was too late. This was how he was going to die, alone in his bedroom, killed by a man whose face Duke hadn’t even seen. At least the end was quick, he mused as he collapsed on the floor.

Duke’s last thought was that the man had known Duke had a backup gun in his room, then everything faded into darkness.


	2. Special Agent Novak, meet Special Agent Winchester

Dean Winchester

“I want you on your best behaviour,” Bobby said in his serious-business voice. He was sitting behind his desk, one finger hovering above the intercom. In his dark blue suit and leather shoes he was fully into Assistant Director Singer mode, and if the disapproving look he’d turned on Dean when he had shown up in old jeans and his favourite leather jacket was any indication, he had expected the same of Dean. “I mean it, Dean,” Bobby warned when Dean rolled his eyes at him.

Dean was throwing a fit, and he knew it, but his patience had been stretched pretty thin lately. With the undercover case he’d been working on for half a year blowing up in his face less than two weeks ago, and an agent dead on his conscience, Dean thought he was entitled. And he had already told Bobby plenty of times he didn’t want a new partner, so really there was no reason for them to be here right now.

When Dean had gotten the call this morning that Assistant Director Singer wanted him in his office, he’d come in expecting to be assigned a new case—which Dean was more than ready for after all the paperwork he had to do following the mess his last undercover case had turned into—but the news about a new partner had blindsided him. What Bobby had planned all along, for sure. 

Now the new agent was right outside the door, and Dean had nowhere to hide to avoid this unfortunate turn of events. The only thing he could wish for was that this time they didn’t shackle him with a rookie fresh out of the Academy. Though Bobby was smart enough not to repeat this mistake twice.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at Dean, but pressed the button on the intercom and asked his secretary to bring the new guy in.

The man that stepped inside was a little shorter than Dean, with dark hair and tan skin, and it took Dean exactly one look to decide he was a useless desk jockey. The neat haircut and sensible shoes were as good a giveaway as any. The guy was wearing a fucking trench coat above his suit, for fuck’s sake, and it didn’t even look like it fit. This type of guy might have been perfect for PR or working on financial crimes, but this was Dean’s territory, and desk jockeys were the small fry that get eaten first out in the field. What was Bobby even thinking, pairing Dean with a goody-two-shoes? 

At least he was not a rookie. Trench Coat actually looked a little older than Dean. Five years? Maybe less.

“I’m not working with him,” Dean blurted out before Trench Coat had taken a proper step towards them. 

Trench Coat quirked his head to the side, intense blue gaze focused entirely on Dean. Not exactly a threat, but close enough to keep Dean’s attention on him. A shiver ran down Dean’s spine, but he stuck his chin out and returned the look with a glare of his own. He knew what Trench Coat was seeing—his own appearance didn’t exactly scream federal agent, but one thing Dean had learned in all his years was that the clothes didn’t make the agent. A lesson Trench Coat would soon learn himself, if he stuck around Dean long enough.

“Do you want me to throw this guy out, sir?” Trench Coat asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.

“If you want to get your ass kicked,” Dean answered. Like Trench Coat could even stand a chance against him.

“Sit down, both of you,” Bobby ordered.

The two men obeyed without breaking eye contact. Trench Coat sat the same way he stood, back straight, posture stiff and rigid, hands on his knees. He was the perfect image of what an agent should look like in his silk tie and crisp white dress shirt. 

Annoyance flared inside Dean as he looked at what clearly was a soft poster boy that he would have to babysit while out in the field. 

“Special Agent Castiel Novak,” Bobby said, gesturing at Trench Coat, “meet Special Agent Dean Winchester, your new partner.”

Castiel Novak let his eyes drag over Dean’s body, assessing him, but his face remained a stony expression of calm.

“Partner,” Castiel said in a deep gravelly voice, tasting the word in his mouth. “And what’s the assignment?”

Bobby looked between them, trying to assess their reactions to each other. 

Dean took a cue from his new partner and carefully concealed any emotion from his face. 

Bobby shook his head. “I assume you’ve heard of the series of murders up in New York.”

Dean leaned slightly forward, interest piqued. “The tri-state murders.”

Bobby nodded, opening a drawer and taking out two sets of folders, which he pushed towards Dean and Castiel. 

Castiel frowned, opening the first folder and quickly scanning the information in there. “I thought we already had agents on that.” 

“We did, but the killer got to them before we got to him,” Bobby said, hand briefly closing into a fist before he forced himself to relax again. He was upset, and rightly so. It wasn’t everyday that the FBI became prey instead of being the hunters. This case was now personal to the Bureau. “Agents Delacruz and Day were found murdered yesterday, after going missing for almost twelve hours. The local police department has already searched and collected evidence, but we requested they keep the murder scene secure for the two of you to go over it again.”

Dean didn’t make a move to pick up the set of folders Bobby had left for him. He already knew plenty about the tri-state murders. Hell, everyone in the Bureau knew about them. Drug dealers and criminals showing up dead left and right every couple of weeks, sending the police around a crazy game of cat and mouse, then a security guard had shown up dead in Connecticut, and less than eight hours later police had found another body in New Jersey, same MO. With the news of the agents’ deaths, Dean wondered who was the mouse and who the cat in this game.

While Castiel still had his nose buried in papers, Dean lifted his head to meet Bobby’s eyes. “When do we leave?”

Searching through the notes scattered over his desk, Bobby said, “We've booked you a flight for tonight. Be at the airport by eight.”

“Oh hell no,” Dean objected immediately. “I’m not getting on an airplane to get from Washington to New York. I’m driving.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows at him. “You're not going to make this easy, are you?”

The drive was not that long, about four hours, and Dean could be ready in half an hour if he needed to. He kept a duffel bag always packed for this exact occasion, so he only had to go by his apartment to pick it up, and he could be on the road long before Castiel was even on his way to the airport. 

He would have to call Sammy first, though. His brother would throw a fit if Dean ended up in the hospital again and Sam didn’t even know he was working on a case. And Dean had a bad habit of ending up in the hospital more often than not.

Next to him, Castiel gathered the folders in his arm. “I’ll go through these while waiting for my flight. Anything else we need to know?”

“Your flight?” Bobby blinked. He lifted a warning finger at both Dean and Castiel. “You two are sticking together. From this moment, consider yourselves glued at the hip.”

“You want me to ride with  _ him _ ?” Castiel asked incredulously.

Protests rose in Dean’s throat, but Bobby cut them off before they could actually leave his mouth. “That’s an order. Drive, fly, for all I care you can run there, but do it together. We already have enough victims as it is.”

“You think the killer will be waiting to pick one of us up from the airport?” Dean scoffed.

Castiel glanced between Dean and Bobby, probably trying to assess the type of relationship the two men had that allowed Dean to talk to his supervisory agent like that. Dean was content to leave him wondering.

“Two agents are dead, ya idjit,” Bobby growled, the exasperated moniker slipping through his professional facade, catching Dean off-guard. Bobby was more worried than he let on. “I want to make sure neither of you ends up belly up.”

If Castiel had any more protests of his own, he was smart enough not to voice them. His face gave away nothing to Dean’s great frustration, but his shoulders were tenser than they were before. Bobby turned to him as he rose from his desk to dismiss them. “Congratulations, Novak. You’re officially back out in the field.”

Nodding once, Castiel reached to shake hands with Bobby. “Thank you, sir.”

“Kiss-ass,” Dean murmured.

“You know we can hear you, right?” Castiel said through gritted teeth. 

“Oh sorry. Did I forget to pretend to cough? Cough, kiss-ass, cough. There, is that better?” Dean taunted, and Castiel took a threatening step towards him.

“Cut it out,” Bobby barked. “I told you to behave, Winchester.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Castiel said, glaring at Dean. “Agent Winchester clearly has some trouble understanding what being a professional means.”

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. “Trust me, between the two of us,  _ I _ am the professional.”

Bobby placed a hand in front of Castiel, keeping him from approaching Dean more. A wise move, Dean thought. These days he couldn't be trusted not to start a fistfight in his supervisor’s office. “You two will work together. I don’t care if you like each other, I don’t care if you talk to each other, but you do your job, and you do it well. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel said, scowl still focused on Dean. Dean only nodded.

“Good, now get out of here. You report to the New York field office first thing tomorrow morning. Details are in your notes.”

Castiel tightened his jaw, but tore his eyes away from Dean to nod in acknowledgement to Bobby before he disappeared through the doors.

Bobby walked around the desk to clasp a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeeze. “Be careful out there. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’m always careful,” Dean grinned. “But I can’t vouch for Mr. Poster Boy out there.” It was a bluff, and they both knew it. Dean could be difficult to work with, and he might have sent most of his partners running away with his attitude, but he took his job seriously and his partners’ safety even more so. If Castiel was completely incompetent (and Dean had trouble believing Bobby would pair him up with somebody completely incompetent again), at least he was in good enough hands to keep him mostly unharmed.

Bobby eyed Dean carefully. “He’s a good agent,” he said evenly. “Give him a chance.”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Dean said, tongue-in-cheek, and that earned him a swat at the shoulder. 

“Get out of here, idjit,” Bobby grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Dean said with a mock salute.

To Dean’s surprise, Castiel was waiting for him outside Bobby’s office, folders held under his armpit. “Still here, Chuckles?”

There was a slight tightness to Castiel’s jaw but otherwise he remained unaffected by Dean’s jab. “It occurred to me that we have to make arrangements, if you insist on driving to New York.”

“I do insist,” Dean said. “And I’m driving, you have enough sticks up your ass already.”

Castiel’s expression wavered before he could school it, lips pressing into a thin line. His hand shot up to finger his collar, a twitch Dean noted and filed away for later use. So his new partner was not just a robot. This might be interesting after all, Dean thought, smirking. 

“This is a disaster,” Castiel said.

“It is,” Dean agreed. “Meet me back here in two hours.” 

***

The FBI-issued SUV had nothing on Dean’s Impala, but it was a sturdy and fast car, and it would serve its purpose for the duration of the case, so Dean couldn’t complain. The car cruised down the highway practically on its own, taking little effort on Dean’s part, who stole a sideways glance at his partner.

Castiel was hunched over his notes, his lap practically buried under the folders he’d been studying for an hour now. A line had formed between his eyebrows as he concentrated on what he was reading, tongue poking out to quickly lick his lower lip.

Dean had to admit he was a little disappointed. He had expected… well, he didn’t know what he had expected, but definitely it was not to be ignored in favour of reports and notes on serial killers. Maybe glaring, or fighting over what music to listen to, but Castiel hadn’t so much as blinked when Dean’s first job once inside the car had been to find the rock station on the radio. He’d dove head first into research.

Now that he’d calmed down a little, the thrill of a new case to work on a refreshing change after all the sulking he’d done in the last few days, Dean could take a step back and reassess his new partner. He still wasn’t impressed, but he’d decided he’d give him the benefit of the doubt—Bobby must have chosen him to work with Dean for a reason, after all. And if everything else failed, at least Castiel had a pretty face to look at, with high cheekbones and sharp jaw, straight nose and dark hair just long enough for Dean to tangle his fingers in. Which was the wrong thing to be thinking about while they were on their way to solve a series of murders. Especially because Dean was pretty sure Castiel Novak was not interested in any kind of fun outside of their work.

Castiel Novak. A weird name, stiff and grim, fitting for the man sitting next to Dean with the deep frown and tight shoulders. An unusual name for sure. Dean could bet there was a story there. He could always pull Castiel’s file and take a look, see what he’s dealing with here, but Dean had never liked the easy way out. “So, what kind of shit job were you doing before they sent you here?”

Castiel glanced up from the papers in his hands, and the corner of his lips twitched into something that resembled a smile. “What do you care?”

Dean shrugged. “Just want to know how much babysitting I’ll have to do.”

“Just because I was not doing fieldwork doesn’t mean I need a babysitter,” Castiel said, his voice tinted with amusement. “You on the other hand…”

It was a weak bait, but Dean decided to bite anyway. “It’s cute you think I need a babysitter.”

Castiel put the papers down and turned so his upper body was angled towards Dean. “I may be new in the DC field office, but I know agents like you. They are everywhere.” A sardonic smile appeared in his face before he continued. “Difficult to work with, headstrong, more bravado than common sense, lucky enough to have cracked a couple of big cases so they keep you around. They only need someone to keep your leash tight.”

Dean shook his head, half amused and half annoyed. Castiel thought he could keep Dean in check? Dean had bad news for him. “What, you’re a profiler or something?”

“Or something,” Castiel said. A pause, then, “You’re afraid of airplanes.”

“I’m not,” Dean bit back, a hint of annoyance coloring his voice now. He’d been in an airplane plenty of times before—kind of came with the job when you were a former marine turned federal agent—but he didn’t want to be in one if there were alternatives. Count on something-like-a-profiler to catch onto that and use it against him.

Castiel rolled his eyes, opening the folder and peering down at it again. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It made Dean antsy, his fingers itchy to find his gun and shoot at something. He settled for drumming them against the wheel. They had at least two more hours before they reached New York, and by then it would probably be too late to do anything else but grab dinner and return to their hotel. It gave Dean time to study the case before they headed out tomorrow and enough time to work it in his head tonight.

He peered at Castiel again. The man was so uptight Dean thought it was amazing somebody hadn’t shot him just to see if he’d flinch. Dean would bet he wouldn’t. He was still wearing his stupid trench coat and was in full suit—unlike Dean who had opted to stay in his comfortable clothes until they checked in tonight—but there was something about him and the way he refused to let Dean have the last word, that had Dean convinced he might be tougher than he looked. If it was true, it would be a welcome surprise.

“Anything interesting in there?” Dean asked after a while,  eyes flying from the wing mirrors to the rear view one. It was a habit his father had taught him.  _ Always be aware of everything around you, Dean _ , John Winchester had used to say.  _ You don’t have to protect yourself from just your own mistakes but from all the other idiots as well. _

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to read them yourself?”

“I wanted to see if there’s anything that stands out to you. No reason to be an asshole.”

“I’ll write you a memo,” Castiel said. “Don’t worry, I’ll use easy words.”

Dean had to admit he was intrigued. At the very least Castiel seemed like a man that gave as good as he got, and so far all of Dean’s comments had been met with equal sarcasm. Dean wondered what Castiel would look like when Dean finally discovered all his buttons. It might do Castiel some good to get off his high horse. How long would it take before Castiel snapped and took a swing at him? Hopefully it would be soon. Dean was itching to punch something after all the frustrating failures lately. 

It was Dean’s turn to smirk now. “It’s the  _ leashed _ you can do.” 

It took Castiel a minute. When Dean’s words finally registered, Dean could see exactly how hard Castiel had to fight not to react. Whether he’d laugh or roll his eyes at Dean’s silly pun, Dean didn’t know, but both reactions would have been welcome. Tight mouth and eyes stuck on the paper in front of him, not so much.

“Come on, it was funny.”

“I’m trying to work,” Castiel grunted. “You’re the one who insisted we drive, so do your job and drive while I’m doing mine and try and catch this murderer.”

“Be careful there, hotshot,” Dean drawled. “Don’t want to rip your panties.”

“Dick,” Castiel muttered under his breath.

“Asshole,” Dean fired back.

Castiel closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Then he turned a warning glare to Dean that made the hair at the nape of his neck rise. Dean was pretty sure if he kept this up, one of them would end up shoved out of the car, and considering his training, Dean thought he wouldn’t be the one cleaning dirt off his ass. He thought of the ass whooping Bobby would deal him if he found out Dean had abandoned his partner in the middle of the highway, and that sobered him up a little. He reached over and turned the volume louder, ignoring Castiel who went back to his research.

Antagonizing his partner for fun was one thing, getting involved in a fist fight was a completely different case. It wasn’t Dean’s fault, though. Castiel was practically begging him to tease him to no end with his attitude. Castiel was a tough man to crack—certainly tougher than the last guy Bobby had paired Dean with, who had followed Dean around like a lost puppy after a day—but Dean thought he could do it. It would be a challenge, and Dean was always up for a challenge. He’d get him eventually.

The only words they exchanged during the rest of their drive was when Dean finally parked outside of their hotel, and they agreed on what time they should be ready tomorrow. They had separate rooms—thank God, Dean didn’t think he could handle spending more time with poster boy than he had to—but they were right next to each other, so when somebody came knocking on Castiel’s door with room service, Dean was reminded that he needed to eat something. He considered going out and finding a diner or something, but there was too much reading he needed to do tonight. He reached for the phone by the bed with a sigh to order room service, too, and then buried himself in papers for the next few hours.

***

Dean patted himself down making sure he had everything he needed. 

Phone, check.

Badge, check.

Gun, check.

He considered waiting at the car, decided against it and knocked on Castiel’s door instead. No movement could be heard from inside, but Castiel opened the door a couple of minutes later. His jacket was still hanging from the back of a chair inside the room, leaving his shoulder holster and his gun exposed. Either he had known it was Dean or he didn’t care who saw him.

But Dean was a little too distracted to ponder that any further. That stupid trench coat had been hiding quite a fit body. 

Castiel looked like he might be a little bulkier than Dean was—the view of well defined muscles under his white dress shirt was quite appealing, and Dean’s mouth watered at the sight. But he would never admit that out loud. 

Dean made a show of checking his partner out, slowly dragging his eyes from head to toes. “Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” he asked cheekily, and Castiel huffed in annoyance.

“Just let me get dressed, and we’ll be out of here.”

Surprisingly, Castiel left the door open so Dean had a perfect view of his back as he shrugged into his jacket and then the trench coat, the thin material of his dress shirt taut against his muscles. The back view was as good as the front, and Dean had to force himself to keep his eyes above the waist or risk being caught ogling his partner’s ass. His asshole partner’s ass. Yeah, no chance Dean was letting that happen, no matter how good those pants fit Castiel.

Castiel did the same pat down Dean had done a few minutes ago—checking his phone for missed calls or messages, too—before grabbing his room key and joining Dean. He nodded with his head at Dean’s suit and tie. “I see you’ve finally decided to dress appropriately.”

“Like what you see?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “A narcissist, too? Come on, we gotta get to the office.”

Dean walked by his side, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed and in complete contrast to Castiel’s straight back and dark mood. “Coffee first,” Dean declared as they came closer to their car.

Castiel shook his head. “We’re gonna be late.”

“Driver decides.” Dean jiggled the keys in front of his partner’s face, watching with delight the hand that came up to finger at Castiel’s collar. Oh, he was so fun to tease. 

“Do you have to make everything difficult?”

“I don’t have to. It’s a hobby.”

Castiel’s lips thinned, but he obediently got inside the car, obviously deciding that arguing would only prolong the inevitable. Fiddling with the radio for a couple of minutes earned Dean a huff of annoyance from the man sitting next to him, but Dean would rather listen to music than Castiel complaining. With a quick glance to his mirrors, Dean pulled out of the parking spot. 

“Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the same until I’m high on caffeine and can’t help it,” Dean said, easily navigating through the streets in search for a coffee shop that looked like it made decent coffee.

“God, you’re an ass,” Castiel observed cooly.

Dean turned to flash him a smile, hoping it would irritate his partner further. “You could always cut and run. I can solve this by myself.”

“As if I’d give you the pleasure.”

“It was worth a try,” Dean shrugged.

“I’d like to take you up on that offer you mentioned earlier,” Castiel said, rubbing two fingers against his temples.

Dean mimicked zipping his mouth in answer.

They picked a coffee shop that was tucked in a corner next to a bookshop, with a green wooden door and the name of the coffeeshop written in gold on the windows. 

Dean took his sweet time deciding what coffee to order, enjoying how every passing second probably made Castiel more and more impatient. Finally, Dean decided he’d pissed him off enough and stepped up to the counter, where a pretty brunette looked at him with interest shining in her dark eyes.

“Good morning, how may I help you?” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

“Good morning, sweetheart. Can you get me one black coffee and for my friend—” he turned to eye Castiel curiously, “—whatever I can slip some valerian in and he won’t notice.”

Castiel groaned behind him, but Dean winked at the woman, making her giggle. 

“Black coffee for me, too,” Castiel said, catching the eye of the barista.

“Two black coffees coming right up,” she said, her eyes returning to Dean.

They left the coffee shop with two steaming cups of coffee and a paper bag that contained chocolate muffins.  _ On the house _ , the girl had said as she passed them over to Dean with a folded paper with her phone number written on it. Dean could have sworn he had heard Castiel rolling his eyes.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be late to report in the office because you were trying to get laid,” Castiel complained. Despite the sour look on his face, he blew at his coffee before taking a careful sip, then he relaxed back in his seat.

“I _ wasn’t _ trying to get laid,” Dean pointed out. “But hey, she might be up for some fun later.”

Castiel glared at him. “Fun? We’re here investigating a series of murders.”

“We’re not investigating twenty-four seven.”

“Only because we need to sleep.”

Dean clenched his jaw, his hold on the steering wheel tightening. “Relaxing isn’t so bad every once in a while,” he said. “Neither is having fun. Remember having fun? It’s what happens when you take that stick out of your ass.”

Castiel shook his head exasperated. “How about we go back to not speaking unless we have to?” 

“Suits me just fine,” Dean muttered.

***

A man in a dark suit was waiting for them outside the field office when they arrived. As Dean was closing the door behind him and locking the car, Darksuit turned around to look at them and grinned, catching Dean off guard. “It was about time, brother.”

Dean felt his own lips curving up in return. “Lafitte, I’ll be damned.”

Benny Lafitte came forward to wrap Dean in a hug and pat him on the back in greeting. Dean could feel Castiel hovering just behind them, but right now all his focus had shifted on his old friend. 

“How are you, man?” Dean asked as the two men took a step back to look each other over. 

“Good,” Benny said. “Better.”

He definitely looked much better than the last time Dean had seen him, four years ago. Physically, at least. No broken bones that Dean could make out or bullet holes that were bleeding and definitely no hospital gown in sight. 

“Back out in the field, then?”

Benny winced. “No, not yet. Just desk work for now. But I think it’s for the best.”

Dean nodded in understanding. Benny might be coping better now than he'd been four years ago, but Dean couldn’t imagine the stress of doing fieldwork would be any good for him. He was still surprised Benny hadn’t applied for an early retirement. Time might really heal even the deepest of wounds. 

“Sorry to interrupt your heart to heart, but we’re here for work,” Castiel called out.

Benny turned to look at him, but when he spoke he was still addressing Dean. “New partner?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dean said, waving Castiel over. “This is Special Agent Novak. Special Agent Benny Lafitte.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel rumbled, shaking Benny’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, too. I’m sorry you’re stuck with Winchester,” Benny replied with a mischievous grin.

Castiel chuckled, his cold and stoic mask disappearing for a few moments. He actually looked good when he didn’t look like he was constipated. “Not more sorry than I am.”

Benny clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder before turning to lead them inside the building. “I’ll be your contact while you’re on this case. Anything you need, you come to me. Now let’s go and meet the others.”

The office they’d be using was on the first floor, with a large, round table taking up most of the space and a dry-erase board right across the door. An even bigger bulletin board was hanging from the wall next to it, with pictures of the victims pinned to a map of the city. Dean’s eyes immediately fell on the pictures of the two agents that had been murdered a couple of days ago.

Benny closed the door behind them and gestured towards the empty chairs that were closer to them. The three other people in the room watched them curiously. Benny nodded to each of them as he introduced them. “Special Agents Aaron Bass and Annie Hawkins, they were working on the case with agents Day and Delacruz.” The man and the woman with the auburn hair nodded in greeting from the corner of the room where they were standing. Then Benny gestured towards a woman with her dark haired pulled back in a messy ponytail. “Special Agent Barnes, she was sent to assist with the unsub’s profile.”

Castiel stepped towards her immediately, shaking her hand. “Pamela Barnes from BAU, right? I’ve heard of your work.”

Barnes laughed, returning the handshake. “Always nice to meet a fan, especially if said fan comes with such a handsome face.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Dean said, coming forward to greet her, too.

Barnes held his hand, letting her eyes roam over Dean’s body. “And this one’s not half-bad either. Lucky me.”

“Have you people been briefed?” Hawkins asked, coming to stand by the dry-erase board, hands crossed over her chest anxiously. Being called in to a crime scene and finding your co-workers must have been quite a shock to both her and Bass, and they both looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but in this room meeting Dean and Castiel. Lots of things to be done and plenty of people to be interviewed, Dean was sure. In their shoes he’d rather be out searching for the killer, too.

Hawkins and Bass stuck around only long enough to make sure Dean and Castiel were familiar with the case, and that Benny would answer any questions they might have, then excused themselves to go back to interviewing staff from the hotel where Day and Delacruz were staying. Dean sighed in relief. He’d rather not have to sit through dozens of similar interviews if he could help it. 

Benny went over the case with them again briefly, explaining in greater detail about the victims and the locations where they’d been found, his finger moving along the map as he talked.

“We know all of his victims have been in some sort of trouble with the law before,” Dean observed, trying not to roll his eyes at Castiel who was taking notes meticulously on a tiny notebook he’d produced seemingly out of thin air. His work laptop was still in its case by his legs. What kind of caveman carried a laptop around only to use a notebook and a pencil stub? 

Castiel lifted his eyes to squint at the pictures behind Benny, hand still writing on his small notebook. “We have two drug dealers, one suspected pedophile and a pimp. What about this guy? Duke Anderson. He was head of security at some nightclub.”

“There’s an ongoing investigation into the owners of the club,” Benny said, searching through the piles of paper to unearth the case files. He traced the words with his finger. “Suspected sex trafficking. Maybe Anderson was in on it.”

Dean extended his hand, silently asking for the file. “He was interviewed but not booked. The unsub couldn’t be sure he was guilty.”

To his side, Castiel shook his head. “Our killer is thorough. Look at the crime scene reports, no evidence that could lead back to him was found, no witnesses to any of the murders or the kidnappings. He knew their schedule. He was probably following them.”

“The unsub is a vigilante killer.” Barnes was leaning back in her chair, legs crossed at the knees. “Usually just a suspicion would be enough to set him off, but Novak is right. He was probably making sure they were guilty first before going after them.”

“An extensive collection of child pornography was found in William’s house after his murder. Miller’s DNA was matched to half a dozen rape cases after his death.” Benny pointed at two of the pictures pinned to the board. “I bet we’ll find something for Anderson, too, if we dig deep enough.”

“But what about the agents?” Castiel asked. “They don’t fit his MO. They were shot, unlike all the others that were killed by slicing their necks, they were taken alive and found in the primary death scene, and they weren’t posed like all the others.”

“They got too close, probably,” Barnes shrugged. “The unsub didn’t have the time to plan their murder as much as the others, and even if he did, the MO would still be different. They weren’t criminals, they were just in his way.”

Dean fingered the edge of the case file he was holding. “Singer said the crime scene was left intact for us to see. Can we go there?”

“Of course,” Benny nodded. “I can drive you there if you want.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve got this,” Dean said waving him away. If Benny didn’t feel stable enough yet, there was no reason for Dean to drag him to crime scenes just to drive. And Dean would rather drive himself anyway. “Come on, Novak, let’s go.”

While Castiel was gathering his tiny notebook and pen and placing them inside his pocket again—his trench coat had stayed on, of course—Dean turned to Barnes, giving her his most charming smile. “What about you, Agent Barnes?”

“Call me Pamela, darling,” Barnes said with a wink.

Dean smirked in return. “Well, are you coming, darling?” he drawled. The audible sigh coming from Castiel was a bigger reward than the sight of her long neck as she threw her head back and laughed, but Pamela Barnes had gotten his attention.

“Asking me to accompany you to a crime scene without a first date? I’m intrigued.”

“I’d rather skip dinner and go straight to dessert.”

“I bet you would. Unfortunately, I’ve already gone with Hawkins and Bass.”

“Can we please go?” Castiel had already opened the door and was walking away.

Dean tapped two fingers on the table. “Offer still stands,” he told Pamela, and with a quick wink to Benny, ran after his partner.

“Take care of Novak for me,” Pamela yelled after him. “That face is too pretty to be ruined.”

Dean chuckled as he caught up with Castiel, who turned an extra constipated look on him.

“What?” Dean asked.

Castiel surveyed their surroundings, making sure they were out of anyone’s earshot, then stopped walking, causing Dean to almost stumble into him. He turned slowly, his face only a few inches away from Dean’s, forcing him to lean back to be able to look Castiel in the eye. “This is not a game.”

“Who said it was?”

“I know you’re used to things going your way, because you’re… charming, probably, though I personally don’t see it. But this case is serious and it’s time to stop playing.”

Dean placed his forearm against Castiel’s chest to push him away. He was met with hard muscles and unyielding stubbornness. Something like a shiver crawled its way up his spine. “You think I’m playing?”

“Aren’t you?  _ Darling _ ?” Castiel asked, sarcasm dripping from his last word.

Dean squinted at him, hands clenched into fists. “Okay, let’s pretend for a second that I care about your opinion of me.”

“Let’s not,” Castiel said, turning around and walking away in long determined strides.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered, running after him. He grabbed Castiel by the elbow and spun him around, and suddenly they were face to face again, noses close enough to touch if Dean moved his weight just a fraction forward, the air between them heavy with tension. “If there’s something you want to say, say it to my face. You think this is some kind of game to me? I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m serious. I’m just not an asshole that needs to darken the mood of every room he walks into. Now get moving before I force you to.”

Castiel met Dean’s glare with his own glassy stare, lips pressed into a thin line. He shook his arm free and reached to press the button for the elevator.


	3. Hello, ma’am, FBI

Castiel Novak

Castiel held the photos of the bodies up, his eyes jumping between them and the crime scene. 

Agents Delacruz and Day had been found in the basement of an abandoned building, a couple of blocks from the hotel where they’d been staying. The only clue as to where they’d been taken was their car, which had been found parked outside the building their bodies had been discovered in a few hours later. There were still yellow tapes on the front door and blood staining the concrete floor where the agents had been tied up before the unsub had killed them. A single shot between the eyes for each of them. At least they hadn’t suffered.  The bodies had already been taken to the morgue, so the photos were the only way for them to see exactly what the room had looked like when the police had arrived. 

Dean was wandering around the room, hands in his pockets, tall and self-assured, like a lion stalking its prey. Despite their fight before coming here, and the thick tension between them in the car, Dean now remained silent and looked like all his focus had finally shifted to the case. Castiel was happy not to be the target of Dean’s wrath for once. The look in his eyes as he examined the few traces left behind by the killer spelt danger and made Castiel shiver. Maybe Dean wasn’t all bad jokes and insubordination, after all.

“They look like they’re sleeping,” Castiel said, half turning to gaze at his partner. Dean grunted to acknowledge him but otherwise remained silent. Castiel watched as he reached the two wooden tables the agents had been laid on, still stained with drops of their blood. He lifted the sheets they had been covered in with gloved hands. “Anything interesting there?”

“No, nothing.” Short and simple. Castiel knew better than to push for more.

Nodding, Castiel turned back to the photos. The two agents had been posed on the tables in a parody of children tucked into bed. Peaceful and horrifying at the same time, and the complete opposite of what the killer usually did with his victims. And the differences only started there.

“All the other victims were tied to chairs, posed with their heads and hands bound together like they were praying. Why change the MO for Day and Delacruz?” Castiel wondered aloud.

“The other victims were criminals, sinners. Maybe instead of praying we should be thinking of it as asking for forgiveness?”

“From God?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe from their victims.”

“So why pose Day and Delacruz at all? They weren’t criminals.”

Coming to stand next to him, Dean took the photos out of Castiel’s hand, examining them. “I doubt they were crooked, but I’ll ask Benny for their files.” He returned the photos, then paced around the room. “Pamela thinks they were killed because they got too close to finding him. Maybe posing them in bed represents them being innocent, the unsub’s own plea for forgiveness.”

Castiel’s lips pressed into a thin line while he contemplated that. “Everything he’s done up until now has been calculated. He watched his victims, killed them in their own home and then moved them to a secondary location for no apparent reason. Even this scene had some amount of planning behind it. He took Day and Delacruz alive and brought them here. He had to have known about this place, and he found some way to incapacitate them.”

“Chloroform?” Dean guessed.

“Both of them?”

“It’s my best theory until lab results are in.”

Castiel let his mind drift away from the scene in front of him and focused on the reports from the other murders. There was something bothering him, a small piece that didn’t quite fit with the rest of the puzzle he had laid out in front of him. He just couldn’t find it yet. Then there was the terrifying theory that had been sitting in the back of his mind since he’d set foot in New York.

“Did you read the profile Barnes wrote?” Castiel asked in a low voice.

“Male, probably in his mid-thirties to early-forties, able-bodied,” Dean easily recited. “All his victims were criminals so we’re looking at a vigilante killer, someone who feels he is above the law. Probably the unsub was a victim himself and never found justice. He has experience with forensic evidence collection, so we’re probably looking for somebody in law enforcement.”

Castiel had to reluctantly admit he was impressed. Dean had done his homework.

“He follows the investigation,” Castiel said. “He knew Day and Delacruz had something on him and took them out before they could identify him.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat, ignoring the now-familiar panic rising inside him and pushed the words out. “Do you think it’s someone that was working with them.”

Dean tightened his jaw, but he was clearly not surprised by Castiel’s question. “I’ve thought about it. It would make sense.”

“But you’re not convinced,” Castiel finished for him. Dean’s doubts came as a relief. The implication of someone Delacruz and Day had been working with being involved made his blood run cold just at the thought of it. Someone Castiel and Dean might also be working with. Someone waiting to betray them. Betray him. Again.

“Honestly, maybe the guy is just a very skilled stalker.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe Delacruz and Day had nothing on him. Maybe he just freaked out because the FBI got involved.”

“The FBI,” Castiel said, but he didn’t have time to mull that thought over. 

A creak from upstairs made them both reach for their guns. 

Dean was by the basement’s door in the blink of an eye, his Colt steady in his hands. Letting his eyes linger on the ceiling for a couple of seconds, Castiel followed him on silent feet. The entrance to the building was still closed off with yellow tape, so no unsuspecting civilian should have strolled in by mistake. Whoever was up there had a very specific purpose in mind. The question was what that purpose was.

With a jerk of his head, Dean instructed Castiel to follow him upstairs. They made their way up the narrow stairs, Dean taking the lead, body angled so his back was almost flat to the wall but still covering most of Castiel’s view of the stairs ahead. If somebody attacked them right now, Castiel wouldn’t have a clear shot, but he had to trust Dean’s reflexes to not get them both killed.

Dean stopped right at the basement door they had left open, gun held high. Without having to be told, Castiel followed Dean out into the hallway of the building and turned right, his back to Dean’s, who had turned left.The sound of footsteps on the old wooden floor became louder as the unknown person came closer to them. Judging from the sound, Dean would be the one facing them first, but Castiel kept his eyes steady on the opposite direction in case there was more than one person in the building.

“FBI,” Dean yelled. “Identify yourself.”

The steps paused, then started towards them again, this time faster.

“FBI,” Dean shouted again.

“I heard you the first time, love.” A man in a dark coat stepped through one of the doors, hands in his pockets. “Are you the new Suits in town?”

“Hands up. And I said identify yourself.”

Keeping his ears open for any other movements, Castiel turned to face the unknown man, who slowly took his hands out and lifted them at head height.

“Name’s Crowley, NYPD.”

Dean took a couple of steps forward, staying out of Castiel’s line of fire in case Crowley tried anything. “Show me your badge.”

Crowley sighed but obediently reached inside his coat, took out his badge and handed it to Dean. “I have to say I liked the other ones better. At least they didn’t wave their guns around like crazy,” he said while Dean was looking at the badge, then he grinned. “Then again, they ended up in the morgue.”

Dean turned and nodded to Castiel. The man was telling the truth, he really was with the NYPD. That wasn’t a reason for them to relax, though.

Castiel moved to stand next to Dean, lowering his gun but not putting it back in its holster yet. “This is a federal investigation, what are you doing here?”

“He’s trespassing, that’s what he’s doing,” Dean growled, his own weapon still out and ready to fire at any sign of threat.

Crowley rolled his eyes, looking at the ceiling. “No need for all this… display of aggression. You two are doing your investigation, and I’m doing mine.”

Dean was tense next to Castiel, his stance wide and imposing in an effort to intimidate the man before them. It wasn’t exactly working. Castiel grabbed Dean’s elbow and stepped forward, putting himself between the two men. “This case is no longer in your jurisdiction. You’re not allowed to be here.”

“Feisty.” Crowley clicked his tongue. “And here I was thinking we could all play nice.”

“I don’t play nice with others,” Dean warned. “Now get the hell out of my crime scene.” 

Castiel had to fight really hard not to roll his eyes. This whole Alpha male farce was becoming old fast. At least Dean’s words had the effect he had intended. Crowley eyed then both, probably weighing the pros and cons of going against two federal agents, until finally his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Fine. I’ll go for now.” As he was walking towards the door, he turned to give Castiel one final look over his shoulder. “Keep your dog on a tight leash. You don’t want him barking up the wrong tree.”

Dean shook his arm free of Castiel’s hold and returned his gun back in its holster, under his jacket. “Jesus, what a dick.”

Castiel moved to watch Crowley disappear inside a silver car through the boarded up window. Only after the car was gone did he allow himself to relax and put away his own gun, too. “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“About investigating? Could be. God knows I’ve seen my fair share of cops thinking they’re hot shit and only them can catch the bad guy.”

“Aren’t you the same?” Castiel asked, walking around the room. There was nothing special about this building, other than it being abandoned and with easy access to the basement. Castiel knew Bass and Hawkins had already requested all the property’s public records, but he was sure they wouldn’t find any connection to their unsub. He was too smart for that. This place was convenient but nothing more.

“Despite what you think, I actually am hot shit.” Dean waved at himself, giving Castiel one of those grins that just begged him to swipe it off his face with a fist. “That Crowley guy is not.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so prejudiced against police officers. They’re only doing their work,” Castiel gritted out, the familiar feeling of irritation creeping up on him. Dean had a particular talent at getting under Castiel’s skin with minimal effort. 

“Oh God. Please don’t tell me you used to be a cop. I don’t think I can be friends with you anymore.”

“We weren’t friends to begin with.” Castiel’s career was nobody’s business, but he wouldn’t stand for Dean to look down on him for being a police officer. He was damn proud of the work he’d done before joining the Bureau. 

Dean brought a hand over his heart, fluttering his eyelashes at Castiel. It only served to irritate him further. “You mean we’re not gonna have a sleepover and a pillowfight wearing only our panties? You wound me.”

“Let’s just get out of here.” Castiel could already feel himself tiptoeing dangerously close at the edge of losing control. And two men in an abandoned building, both armed and one of them obviously trigger happy, was a situation Castiel had no interest in seeing play out.

Dean followed him back outside “What, no smart response? No comeback? You’re no fun.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

Dean tapped his knuckles against the car as he walked around to get to the driver’s side. “An asshole desperate enough for a burger to buy you lunch, so zip your mouth and get in the car.”

“We’re not going back to the office? We still have work to do,” Castiel said, hovering on the sidewalk, his door halfway open.

Dean visibly shivered. “And be forced to sit through witness interviews? Thank you, but no. Let’s grab something to eat, get Benny to tell us what the deal is with this Crowley guy, and we see where we go from there.”

***

“Yeah, man, I’m telling you he was just there.”

Castiel watched as Dean spoke on the phone with Lafitte, telling him about their run in with Crowley. Even with hearing only half of the conversation, it was obvious Lafitte knew the man.

“Alright… Yeah, sure, we’re having lunch right now.” Dean’s eyes met Castiel’s across the table, amusement shining in them. Whatever Lafitte was telling him, Castiel’s name had been mentioned. Castiel huffed in annoyance and pulled his own phone out, anxiety curling in his stomach as he tapped the screen, but there were no missed calls. No messages either. He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or not. 

“No, don’t worry, I won’t bite him... hard.” Dean laughed, ending the call and stashing his phone back in his pocket. 

He leaned with his elbows on the table, watching through the large windows the people coming and going outside. “Benny says Crowley was the detective in charge of the case up until Duke Anderson’s body was discovered over in Connecticut. Has been nosing around the investigation ever since. Word is he got his panties in a twist over the FBI taking over a child abduction case he was working on a couple of years back.”

“And how’s the child?”

Dean glanced back to him. He winced. “Dead. But they got they guy and saved two other boys."

Castiel nodded, letting that information wash over him. They couldn’t save everyone, but they could stop as many bad guys as they could.

“And if Crowley shows up again?”

“We ignore him,” Dean said, turning his head as their waitress approached them with their order.

The redhead named Sandy, spelled in swirly handwriting in her name tag, placed two plates of burgers on the table, giving Dean a dashing smile, eyes flickering over his face, appreciating the view. “Here you go. Anything else, sugar?”

Dean glanced up at her, returning her smile with a flirty smirk of his own. “We’re good. Thank you, sweetheart.”

She nodded, tapping two fingers on his shoulders, her touch lingering just a second too long. “Well, if you need anything you know where to find me.”

“Sure thing,” Dean answered, but his attention had already moved from the pretty waitress to his plate, fingers moving to loosen his tie.

Castiel watched him for a couple of seconds before reaching for his own burger. Dean was infuriating, and undoubtedly the most difficult person Castiel had ever had to work with, but there were moments—like with the pretty waitress now, the girl who made them coffee this morning, and even with agents Lafitte and Barnes—that he was charming and engaging. This Dean Winchester was a delight to watch, warm and inviting, and moments like this almost made Castiel forget how much he resented him. Almost.

“Hey, can I borrow that notebook of yours?” Dean asked out of nowhere, swallowing down a bite. 

Castiel eyed him suspiciously, but reached into his pocket and passed him the notebook along with a pen. Dean granted his thanks, then found a clean page, fingertips tracing the edge of the paper. 

They ate their lunch in silence, each lost to his own thoughts, their table in complete contrast to the fun chatter and happy faces of the families and friend groups around them. Dean was drawing with his right hand, burger in his left, long lines creating an image on the paper that Castiel couldn’t make out yet. With nothing better to do, Castiel found himself distracted with watching Dean’s fingers as they moved the pen around, fast and sure as they went back and forth to draw squares and scribble notes underneath them.

Five minutes could have passed, or maybe it was an hour, but Dean dropped the pen to clean his fingers with a napkin, and Castiel was shaken out of his stupor, suddenly realizing that Dean was finished with his food, while Castiel was frozen with his burger half-lifted to his face. 

“You okay there, Novak?” Dean asked, crumbling the napkin in his fist and throwing it on the now empty plate in front of him.

“I-uh. Yeah. Fine. Just thinking about something,” Castiel said, clearing his throat and taking a bite of his burger. 

Dean nodded in understanding. “This case is quite the riddle, right?” Then he pushed the notebook back to Castiel, turning it so Castiel could see what Dean had been working on: a rough sketch of their crime scene. “Did you notice anything strange while we were there?”

Castiel frowned, examining the drawing in front of him. “You mean except for everything being completely different than what our unsub did up until now?”

Dean shook his head, pointing with a finger at a few arrows he’d drawn on the floor, around the squares that represented the tables the agents had been found on. “There were scuff marks left on the floor from the chains he used to tie Day and Delacruz.”

“Okay,” Castiel answered slowly. “But we’re still waiting for forensics to see if those marks were actually left by the chains.”

“Come on, it’s obvious. We don’t have to wait for some lab rat to give us some bullshit test result.” 

“And you know that how?”

Dean flashed him a smile, leaning forward, his voice lower and more intimate than before, forcing Castiel to come closer to catch his next words when he said, “Because I’m hot shit.”

Castiel closed his eyes, trying to force his face to remain unflinching and failing. Dean huffed a laugh, falling back to his chair. “Come on, it was funny.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “You’re a pain the ass.” 

“So I’ve heard, but people usually like it,” Dean shot back, shit-eating grin spreading on his face. 

Castiel supposed he should just be thankful Dean wasn’t in the mood to antagonize him again. 

Dean tapped the pen on the notebook. “Jokes aside, it’s weird. There are marks on the basement floor and up the stairs, but none that lead to the front door.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, trying to remember what the floor had looked like close to the building’s entrance. He came up with nothing. Their encounter with Crowley had absorbed all his concentration. The same hadn’t applied to Dean, apparently. Castiel had to grudgingly admit he was kind of impressed—only to himself of course.

“But there are marks leading to the back door,” Dean added, raising his eyebrows at Castiel expectantly.

“You think he brought them in through the back door,” Castiel concluded. 

Dean nodded, and he brought the pen up to chew on the lid, a blue ink smudge blossoming at the corner of his lips. “I do. Except from what I remember there’s no access to any roads from back there. So how did he carry them to the back door?”

“There’s an open terrace back there, right?”

“Yes, but you can only access it through the buildings.”

Turning his notebook a few pages back to find his hastily scribbled notes, Castiel extended his hand towards Dean, who passed him the pen back to add that new piece of information to the other list of questions and clues he’d written down. “Do you want to go back and check it out?”

“You know I do, but Benny wants us back in the office.”

Castiel turned his focus back on Dean, the hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “Singer can barely keep you in check, but you run with your tail between your legs when Lafitte calls?”

“Hey, Benny’s a cool guy,” Dean protested. “He used to be my partner, you know. No reason to make his life miserable.”

“I’m your partner, and you’ve made it your life’s mission to make me miserable.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, but the curl of his lips betrayed his amusement when he said, “That’s because you’re a dick.” 

Castiel felt the corners of his mouth quirking up in response.“I thought I was an asshole.”

Dean broke out in a full body laugh, head thrown back, eyes creasing at the corners. The sound made something warm stir inside Castiel’s chest, solid and heavy and dangerous. “True. I stand corrected, you’re an asshole.”

Castiel hummed, satisfied with that answer, and he went back to eating, the silence between them lighter this time. It made Castiel hope they’d learn to work together eventually, without all the hostility and the antagonism that had been between them from the first moment they’d met. Granted, Dean’s reaction to meeting Castiel hadn’t been ideal—it had been downright rude and offensive, actually—but Castiel had to admit his own opinion of his partner had been tainted from that first time he’d laid his eyes on Dean.

Castiel chewed slowly, going back and forth in his head about whether or not to say his next words. He was acutely aware of Dean watching him, fingers drumming on the table, face betraying nothing of his own thoughts. Castiel finally figured he’d just go ahead and ask. Worst case, Dean got pissed off again, and they fought. Nothing new here. 

“You and Lafitte, you are close.”

Dean tipped his head to the side, considering Castiel before he said, “We are. Worked together for three years? Maybe four.” He shook his head, eyes softening at the memories. “Best partner I’ve ever had. The only one who could ever put up with me, too. Used to have dinner with him and his wife every weekend, and I’d crash there if I was too drunk to go back home.”

Castiel’s mouth fell open in surprise. Not only because someone who had worked with  _ I-work-better-alone _ Dean Winchester had actually become his friend, but also because Dean had so easily shared that with Castiel. Emboldened by Dean’s good mood, Castiel pressed on. “So what happened? Why are you not working together anymore?”

“Benny had a rough time a few years ago.” Dean’s eyes darkened, mouth pressing into a thin line, the hand resting on the table clenching into a tight fist. “Um, his wife, Andrea, she passed away, and Benny was in a bad place for a while. Then there was—he was in a car accident while we were chasing a suspect, and it was almost—” Dean swallowed down, eyes fleeting between Castiel and the world outside the window as he searched for the words to continue. “For a couple of days it looked like he might not make it. Took him months to recover,” he finally said, and Castiel nodded, not needing to hear the rest of the story.

Long recovery, sent to work a desk job, then becoming a little too comfortable in front of a screen. In another life it could have been Castiel.

He cleared his throat, Dean focusing back to him with the sound. “I’m sorry.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, dropping his eyes to the table. “He pulled through, so…”

“I’m sorry for asking.”

“It’s not like it’s a secret.” Dean shrugged. “I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in my file.”

“I didn’t look at your file,” Castiel confessed, grabbing a french fry from his plate and throwing it in his mouth.

“You didn’t?”

“I trust my own judgement better than a piece of paper.”

Dean lifted his chin and stared Castiel down, back straight and shoulders drawn back, the beginning of a smile playing at his lips. How he could look both challenging and relaxed at the same time was a mystery to Castiel.

“Yeah? So what’s the verdict?”

Castiel ticked off with his fingers. “You’re an insufferable jackass, with no respect for your subordinates or investigation protocols, too cocky for your own good and a handful to deal with even at your best moments.”

He was pushing his luck and Dean’s good mood, but Dean winked at him, teeth biting down at his lower lip. “Good thing I’m so good-looking you can’t hold a grudge then.”

Castiel’s eyes fell to Dean’s lips, long enough to see his tongue poking out to lick over where his teeth had been just moments before, then travelled up to lock with Dean’s, Castiel’s own lips suddenly feeling too dry. “Winchester, the only reason I haven’t shot you yet is because of all the paperwork I’d have to fill out afterwards.”

Dean’s grin only spread wider. “Damn lucky, too, then.” He gestured at Castiel’s still half-full plate. “Come on, finish your food. We still have to get back to the office.”

***

“Finally, you’re here,” Bass said, sparing only a second to glance at Castiel and Dean when they got back.

Judging from the irritation written in Bass’ stiff shoulders and Hawkins’ tight jaw, Castiel figured the interviews had been a waste of time.

“Did you guys find anything?” Lafitte asked from where he was buried in papers and files, sitting in the chair closer to the dry-erase board. Dean immediately claimed the seat next to him.

“We have a couple of theories.”

“Care to share?” Lafitte inquired, one eyebrow raised.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing concrete yet.”

“At least you two look in a better mood now,” Pamela Barnes observed over black-rimmed glasses. She had a laptop open in front of her, probably looking up killers with similar MOs to help her build a stronger profile. 

Castiel had been following Barnes’ career for a few years now, ever since she’d assisted in a case he’d been doing research for behind the scenes. His own interest in profiling after he’d gotten his masters in criminal psychology had urged him to think about a position in the BAU, but Castiel couldn’t give up the work he did in the criminal division. Not yet, at least. Going undercover, investigating cases, it was an addiction. One he had to suppress for a couple of years while he'd been recovering from the last time he’d been UC.

Dean stretched in his seat, the perfect image of carelessness and nonchalance. “I was in a good mood to begin with.”

“Sure you were,” Castiel murmured, recalling their less than friendly talk right outside this very office. He dropped in the chair next to Dean and glanced over in time to catch Dean’s cocky grin, the same thought probably going through his head, too. At least they’d been tolerant of each other since then. Castiel wondered how long the peace would last. 

Aaron Bass, hunched over the table, lifted his head to glare at them. “It’s good to see you’re so focused on this case. It’s not like people,  _ our people _ , are dying.”

“And how did those interviews go, Bass?” Dean asked, dusting imaginary dust off his lapel. His question was met with silence. “Thought so.”

The glare Bass had turned on them intensified, and Castiel had to admit he was half relieved other people found Dean just as frustrating as he did, and half annoyed Bass would even dare to imply they weren’t doing their job. Dean, sure, he did give off that vibe, but Castiel prided himself in being a professional, and no matter how defeated Bass felt currently from the absence of any leads to follow, Castiel wouldn’t stand being a punching bag for him.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Bass, which Castiel knew from personal experience could make the recipient see red in a matter of seconds, but for once Castiel was glad for Dean’s cocksure attitude. It certainly had its merits when it wasn’t used against Castiel.

“Now, now boys. We’re all here to work together, not fight,” Pamela intervened, looking at Benny and Hawkins for some support.

“We talked with everyone that was working at the hotel Day and Delacruz were staying at. Nothing suspicious, nothing that stands out, no visitors.” Annie Hawkins came closer to her partner, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.

“What about the night they were murdered?” Castiel asked, easily slipping into his role again.

Hawkins shook her head, looking pale and exhausted. “Left in the morning like normal. They just never came back. We didn’t find out anything. We don’t even have a timeframe for their abduction.”

Dean turned to Benny. “What about GPS location from their car?” 

Benny released a shaky exhalation. “It was disabled the night before. We think somebody got in their car and messed with it. They probably didn’t even know.”

“Damn, that guy thought about everything.” Dean looked a little impressed.

“And the crime scene? Were there any witnesses there?” Castiel refused to believe they had reached a dead-end. There had to be something. Nobody was perfect, nobody. The killer was bound to have made some kind of mistake. Castiel just had to find it, trace his fingers over the pieces he had in front of him until something finally fit.

“We asked around the neighborhood. Nobody saw anything,” Hawkins said. “They didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary during that day or the days leading up to the murder. Except the agents’ car that was parked there for several hours of course.”

“We could go around and ask some follow up questions. See if somebody remembered something.” In Castiel’s experience people usually didn’t react well when you shoved a badge in their face and started questioning them out of the blue. Important details slipped the mind, but now that a couple of days had passed maybe some of those details would resurface.

A surprised gasp escaped Dean, who overbalanced on his chair to come closer to Castiel and catch his eye. “What? Why? That’s just going to be a waste of our time. We should go to the morgue and take a look at the bodies.”

“You have the autopsy results in your file, as well as photos,” Castiel pointed out. “What do you need to see the bodies for?”

“Because it’s my job?” Dean scoffed, opening his arms in a ‘well’ motion.

“So are interviews.”

“I think you spoke too soon, Agent Barnes,” Benny chuckled, elbowing his old partner in the ribs. Dean turned to swat his arm away.

Pamela lowered her face towards her laptop, no doubt hiding a smile. “I don’t know. I’m kind of enjoying this.”

Bass slammed his palms on the table, causing Hawkins to flinch back surprised, and in a sharp voice, said, “Can we please focus back on the case?”

Dean exchanged a surprised look with Benny. “We are focused on the case. What’s he talking about?”

“Can I make a suggestion, brother?” Benny asked, ignoring the exchange between Bass and Dean. He pointed at Castiel and Dean. “Why don’t you two split up? You go down to the morgue, and Novak can go knock on some doors.”

“We are not splitting up, absolutely not,” Dean declared, turning to focus on Castiel, challenging him to say something different.

Castiel grinned at him, already guessing Dean’s reaction when he said, “So interviews.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at him, tapping his foot, the edge of a threat in his voice. “I said bodies, didn’t I?”

“Bass and I are going to go to Day and Delacruz’s hotel. Search their rooms, see if there’s anything they left there that could help us,” Hawkins cut them off, before they could start fighting. So much for their temporary peace. “You two go out there and do something useful. Anything is better than sitting here and arguing. I can’t stand being around you two any longer.”

Benny lifted his arms, palms out to calm everyone down. Then he turned to Dean. “I have an idea. Ballistics from the bullets are due in a couple of days. Why don’t you go ask some questions today, take a closer look at the bodies tomorrow? Kill two birds with one stone?”

“Whose side are you on, dude?” Dean protested, but it was evident from his slumped shoulders he already knew he was losing this battle.

“I know you hate this kind of thing, but it’s part of the job description. Suck it up.” Benny winked at Castiel over Dean’s shoulder.

Castiel leaned back in his chair, unable to hide the satisfaction in his smile. “So back to the crime scene it is then.”

***

There was a certain routine to going from door to door and asking the same questions again and again— _ hello, ma’am, FBI _ and  _ are you sure you didn’t notice anything unusual _ and _ no, sorry, we still haven’t caught him— _ that soothed Castiel’s anxious mind. He felt like he was finally doing something useful, actively taking steps forward and going after the killer. He was collecting information, and his mind was always happy to have more information, even if to everybody else it was useless. Castiel was of the mind that nothing was ever irrelevant or useless, and no dead end was a good enough reason to stop. How did that saying go?  _ Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we fail.  _ Could have been his life’s motto.

Dean evidently did not work the same way.

He was fidgety and cranky, and looked like he made the minimum effort of flashing his badge before withdrawing completely and letting Castiel do all the talking while Dean paced around, looking out of windows and getting in glaring contests with someone’s dog. It would have been hilarious if it wasn’t happening to Castiel, but it was, and Castiel felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing in the back of his skull. Still, he gritted his teeth and moved to the next apartment. Knock, flash badge,  _ hello ma’am,  _ knock, flash badge,  _ hello ma’am, _ and again.

Castiel lifted his hand and knocked on the next door, shooting a warning glare at his partner.  _ At least pretend you’re doing your job, _ he wanted to say, but Dean clenched his jaw, hunched his shoulders and stared straight at the door, as if hoping that giving it the evil eye would magically burn a hole through it, and Dean would manage to escape.

“Hello, ma'am. Agents Novak and Winchester, FBI.” Castiel and Dean lifted their badges for the old lady with the silver hair and wire-framed glasses that peered at them through the half-opened door. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

“Oh, but I already spoke with two other agents yesterday.” She looked between them, her hands trembling where she clutched at her door.

Castiel smiled warmly at her, trying to reassure her. “I’m aware. If you could spare just a few minutes, we have some follow up questions for you.”

For a second, the old lady did nothing, hovering half-hidden behind her door. Then her eyes fell on the badge Dean was still holding up, and she stepped back, inviting them in.

“Yes, of course. Please.”

The apartment was buried underneath an avalanche of pictures and photographs. Children and grandchildren, weddings, birthdays and graduations, all crammed together in a colorful collage of memories and family, with the occasional flash of a black and white portrait here and there, stared at Castiel from the walls, from frames on tables, from bookcase shelves. 

They were pushed towards a brown couch that looked too cushiony to be comfortable, while their hostess chose to sit in the matching armchair across from them.

A fat cat appeared out of nowhere, freezing mid-step to hold Dean’s gaze and hiss at him. Castiel could have sworn he heard Dean hiss back.

“What can I help you with, agents?” the lady asked, ignoring her cat.

Dean, like with every interview before, leaned back, adopting a carefully neutral expression and letting Castiel do all the talking. Castiel didn’t particularly mind, the script was one he knew well, and there were no surprises in the woman’s answers.

“Did you see something odd on the day of the murder or the days before?”

“No, nothing that I can recall.”

“Nothing at all?”

“There was that shiny black car that was parked outside of the building across the street, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what you are asking.”

Castiel noted down everything the woman was telling him, even though he had already filled ten pages of the same words from the other people he’d spoken to that day.

“Did you see anyone going inside the building? Or coming out of it?”

The woman shook her head apologetically. “No, nobody.”

Castiel sighed, but he wasn’t surprised. Nobody had seen anything. Their killer hadn’t just been careful, apparently he’d also been lucky. He eyed Dean next to him, who was still busy scowling at the cat, and Castiel thought back to their discussion at the diner. Maybe it was time for a change of tactics. He turned his notebook to a fresh page, smoothing the paper with the flat of his palm. “Are you aware that the building can be accessed by a back door?”

“Of course. All the buildings are like that in the neighbourhood. Every block has its own open terrace, accessible only to the residents.”

“And you’re sure the terraces can’t be accessed from any roads?”

The woman tilted her head to the side, considering the question for a second, before answering. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

The interview finished quickly after that, because Castiel didn’t have any other questions to ask, but also because Dean was starting to get restless, and the tapping of his foot—his knee pressed against Castiel’s as they were sitting on the couch, warm and solid—was starting to get on Castiel’s nerves.

When Dean announced he was going back to the car, Castiel was more than happy to let him. They were both tired, and Dean’s sour mood did nothing to help Castiel concentrate on his job. On the contrary, it served to distract him, Castiel’s brain too preoccupied with every annoyed huff and groan that came out of his partner’s mouth and the irritation slowly tracing its fingertips under Castiel’s own skin to do what he came here to do. 

It was the last apartment anyway. Dean might as well go out and cool off before Castiel kicked him out himself.

For the last time, Castiel knocked on a door, waited patiently for a middle-aged man to answer the door and flashed his badge.

“Good evening, sir. Agent Novak, FBI.”

“Good evening,” the man answered, in a better mood than most of the people Castiel had already interviewed. At least it looked like this last one would be painless. “Can I help you with something, agent?”

“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all, though I’ve already spoken with a colleague of yours.”

Same words, again and again. “I’m aware. If you could just spare a moment.”

Castiel was shown inside, politely declined a cup of coffee when offered and quickly went over the usual questions with the man, his son appearing half-way through the interview to perch at the end of the couch’s arm, and getting the same answers—and even less information—as before.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” the man said finally after ten minutes. “I wasn’t even here when the murder happened. My son picked me up for my doctor’s appointment at five.”

“Dad, it wasn’t five,” the son interjected. “It was seven. Remember? We had to change the time last week?”

The man frowned, but he shrugged. “Huh. I guess you’re right. We left around seven.”

“Wait, but you said you weren’t here when the murder happened. How do you know?” Castiel asked, trying not to hope for a breakthrough, because this little, tiny detail about the time might be what they were missing. According to the autopsy, agents Day and Delacruz had died around six.

“Well, that car wasn’t parked here when we left. They said the car was left there by the killer, right?” The man looked to his son, who nodded in agreement. 

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the son said. “I was waiting in my own car ten whole minutes for dad to get down. No car parked there, no car that drove by either.”

***

His mind going a thousand miles per hour, Castiel slid into the passenger seat. The car hadn’t been there when Day and Delacruz had been murdered. This changed everything about their timeline. He turned to his partner, mouth already open to share the news, but Dean’s pinched expression stopped him.

“It's about time,” Dean barked.

Castiel paused long enough to take him in; his eyes bouncing from one side of the road to the other, his foot tapping more vigorously than before, his shoulders tight. Fresh air hadn’t done him any good, apparently.

“Are you okay, Winchester?” he asked carefully, trying to keep his voice steady. They’d been knocking on doors for close to four hours, and by then the last rays of the sun had long since disappeared, the cool night air settling heavily around them. 

“This was a waste of our time.” Dean’s fingers tightened on the wheel momentarily, knuckles white. 

“It was not a waste—”

“Oh, please. We lost four hours talking with people that knew nothing at all instead of actually doing something.”

Castiel closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. Dean was in a bitchy mood, clearly, and Castiel’s patience was running thin. Rather than getting in a fight, maybe it’d be better to wait and tell Dean about his discovery tomorrow, along with the rest of their team. At least separate hotel rooms meant Castiel wouldn't have to deal with Dean anymore tonight. He’d be more than happy to let Dean stew in his own juices.

“Just start the car,” Castiel said, finally. 


	4. Stay away from the window

Dean Winchester

Dean felt like he was about to vibrate right out of his skin. He kept glancing to the rear view mirror, but there was nothing there for most of the ride back. 

Frustration did not work well with Dean. It twisted in his gut and made it hard for him to concentrate. And there was nothing more frustrating than asking the same questions again and again, only to get the same answers.

God, he couldn’t believe he’d just lost four hours of his life doing something as useless as interviews with people they’d  _ already _ interviewed. And to think Benny had actually encouraged it. Dude had apparently gone soft after all the years away from the field.

Not that his own idea of checking out the bodies would have been more fruitful, but Dean had been hoping he’d get a better idea of how the killer worked. Maybe notice something that didn’t translate well in pictures and reports. 

But that wasn’t his problem, not really. His problem was that from the moment he’d set foot outside and walked up to the car, he’d had this weird feeling. Like someone had been watching him. 

Dean had tried to shake the feeling off, but it was constantly there, in the back of his mind, causing a dull pain behind his eyes and making his hands itch for his gun. If all his training and his experience up until now had taught him anything, it was to always trust his instincts. And his instincts were screaming danger. 

Although he'd stayed on high alert, and had tried to discreetly keep an eye on both the street and the buildings while waiting for Castiel to wrap this farce up, everything had remained stubbornly quiet and serene. As serene as a neighborhood with a building sealed with yellow tapes could be. 

He tried to take the long way back to their hotel, hair raised on the nape of his neck. 

Castiel didn’t look like he appreciated the detour, or Dean’s attitude, judging from his sour face, but he kept his mouth shut. Good for him, because Dean really needed an outlet for his irritation right about now, and Castiel had better not put himself in the way.

He turned this way and that, at one point in a completely different direction than the one they really wanted, and that was apparently the point where Castiel’s patience ended.

“Will you please take us back to the hotel?” Castiel groaned, throwing his head back.

Dean’s hold on the wheel tightened. He checked the mirrors again. “That's what I'm doing.”

“Clearly. Because it’s not like we’ve been driving aimlessly for forty-five minutes.” Castiel rubbed a hand over his face. His fingers found his collar, tugging and smoothing the fabric.

Dean shot him a warning glare. His patience was running thin as it was already, he didn’t need Castiel complaining on top of that. “Relax, princess, we’re almost there.”

He took a right turn, down a road that both he and Castiel knew did not lead back to the hotel. 

“Okay, enough,” Castiel said, turning to face Dean. “Can you tell me exactly what’s your fucking problem, Winchester? Because if you’re feeling restless and want to go for a night stroll, by all means do. But I want to sleep.”

The thought that if there really was someone following them, maybe neither of them would get to sleep occurred to Dean, but he didn’t say that out loud. He looked through the rear-view mirror behind them again, and although there were a fair amount of cars driving around them, none of them looked familiar. Dean mentally forced his muscles to relax, ordered himself to calm down. Even if there had really been someone watching them, they clearly hadn’t followed them after they’d left the scene. 

“Almost there,” he hissed. 

Castiel narrowed his eyes but didn’t comment. The next time Dean made a turn he really was heading back.

Thirty minutes later, Castiel slammed the door behind him, and Dean exhaled in relief. They’d made it back to the hotel’s garage without a problem. What were the odds of something going wrong now? 

“Took us long enough,” Castiel muttered, walking ahead.

“I’d appreciate more support and less bitching.” Dean easily caught up with him, coming to stand with Castiel shoulder to shoulder as they waited for the elevator. 

The elevator doors opened with a  _ bing _ , washing Castiel’s face in a pale light as he stepped past Dean, shoulders brushing. “Support for what? You going crazy all of a sudden? Lashing out with no reason at all?” Castiel ticked off with his fingers.

“Don’t speak about things you don’t know.” Dean followed him, belatedly realizing that trapping himself in such a small space with Castiel might not have been such a good idea. Especially not with the way anxiety crawled under his skin, asking for relief. 

“You don’t like me, I get it, but we’re partners,” Castiel said, looking straight ahead. “You have to talk to me.”

The metallic hum of machinery signalled their ascent, and Dean couldn’t get out of that elevator fast enough. “I only have to make sure you’re alive, well-fed and out of my way.”

“I’m not an idiot, you know. We went through the same training, I’ve worked in the criminal division before. You don’t get to look down on me.”

“So what? Anyone can have a paper framed on the wall. How long were you sitting behind a desk? Or more importantly which case did you fuck up badly enough to end up there?” It was a low blow, Dean knew it the moment the words left his mouth. A perverse sense of satisfaction bloomed inside him at Castiel’s flushed jaw and ears, though. He was getting under his skin, and Dean reveled in that, in finally cracking through Castiel’s irritating professionalism and sober bullshit.

There was a muscle pulsing in Castiel’s jaw. His hand jerked as if he would reach to touch his collar again, but instead it curled in a fist somewhere at waist-height. “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m not your punching bag.”

The elevator slowed and stopped with a low whistle. “Not yet, you aren’t. But keep it up and I promise I won’t hold back,” Dean warned, voice dropping low. Then he turned around and stepped out of the elevator, without giving himself anytime to look at Castiel’s expression. Maybe now he’d stop bothering Dean once and for all.

They were the only people in the corridor, only a couple dozen steps separating Dean from his soft bed. He couldn’t get there fast enough.

Dean heard Castiel catching up to him. 

The hair at the back of his neck rising was the only warning he got before he was slammed to the nearby wall, head first. Castiel’s forearm was pinning him there, pushing him until he was pressed flat on the hard surface from his face to his knees. Castiel’s body was a warm, solid weight against him. One leg was shoved between Dean’s when Castiel pressed closer to twist his arm painfully behind his back. 

His heartbeat was deafening inside his ears, adrenaline rushing through his veins. But Dean was too stunned to react, giving Castiel enough time to lean closer, his chest right against Dean’s back, their arms trapped between them. His voice was low, threatening. His lips grazed Dean’s skin, making a shiver run down his spine, when Castiel whispered right next to his ear, “Don’t underestimate me, Winchester.”

Dean’s stomach plummeted, knees shaking. His skin felt warm and sensitive where Castiel’s breath was touching him. 

And then Castiel released him.

Dean pushed away from the wall just in time to see Castiel walking away. His whole body was vibrating, skin itching with the instinct to attack back, tackle Castiel to the floor and beat the shit out of him. Except certain parts of his body had apparently lost the message somewhere on the way, because his blood was rushing to the wrong place, and Dean was painfully hard in his pants, mouth coming up dry. If he did get to Castiel right now he couldn’t be sure if he’d punch him or kiss him, fast and hard, until his lips were bruised and bitten. Until Castiel was soft and pliant with want underneath him.

Castiel reached his room, slid the card in the magnetic lock and opened the door, and Dean didn’t have any more time to figure out what he was going to do. The only thing he knew was that he was not letting Castiel fucking Novak get away with attacking him, and so he scurried after him, catching the door before it was closed.

“Want some more, Winchester?” Castiel asked, turning to look at him as he walked backwards further into the room, face flushed, eyes dark and dangerous.

Dean took two threatening steps inside the room. Then his eyes caught a flash of something metallic through the window, and his vision narrowed, heart picking up, muscles reacting on instinct. He could smell smoke and blood and death, and his feet felt too slow in the sand, body too heavy under his equipment but he had to move, he had to go, go, go,  _ faster sergeant,  _ and he slammed into the man in front of him, both of them hitting the ground hard. They had to move, they had to move, they weren’t safe—they weren’t safe and—

“—Dean!” 

A hand on his shoulder. Another cupping his face. A voice Dean knew except it was wrong because it shouldn’t be here. Castiel shouldn’t be in the desert.

“Dean, look at me!”

And Dean did. He looked up to find blue eyes staring back, dark hair, trench coat. No camouflage uniform, no ballistic vest, no helmet. Slowly, the rest of the world came into focus: the broken glass on the carpet, the carefully made bed, the hole in the window, the bullet in the side table. He was not in the desert, and he was not fighting for his life. He was in a hotel room, his partner sprawled on top of him where they’d rolled over after hitting the floor. And somebody had just tried to murder one of them. Possibly both.

“Fuck,” he cursed, head hitting the floor underneath him.

Apparently that was all Castiel needed to make sure Dean was okay, because he rolled off him, hand reaching for his gun, and he squatted by the window.

“Do you know where you are?” Castiel asked, pressing his back against the wall, staying low. He grabbed the curtain and yanked it closed over the window, hiding them completely from whoever had just gone fucking American Sniper on them.

“Yes, fuck,” Dean groaned. He was trembling, hands shaking, and his muscles were refusing to cooperate with him, but he swallowed down the terror and the shame, counted to ten, waiting until his breath was only shaky instead of shallow and rasping. He hadn’t had a flashback in close to eight years now. Not since his first case as an FBI agent.

Then again, he hadn’t been targeted by a marksman since Afghanistan.

“Stay away from the window,” Castiel warned.

A hysterical laugh rose in Dean’s throat, because Castiel Novak of all people was telling Dean what to do like he knew what it was like to live with the constant fear of being shot if you weren’t careful enough, and Dean was actually moving to do as told. Except between the two of them, Castiel was the one not freaking out, and his words made sense. Dean moved next to him, retrieving his own gun and taking deep breaths, ignoring the slight tremor of his hands.

Castiel was saying something in his phone, calling for backup maybe, and then he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed gently. It was more comforting than Dean wanted to admit.

“Ex-military?” Castiel asked sometime between the phone call and the eight minutes it took for agent Bass to show up with reinforcements and secure the hotel.

“Marine,” Dean said, and Castiel only nodded. Even if he hadn’t been something-like-a-profiler he would have known what a flashback looked like.

“I’m glad that marksman got to me before you did, then,” Castiel said dryly, and it was such a ridiculous thing to say, that a bullet had just saved Castiel from getting his ass handed to him by an ex-marine—and there was no doubt in the mind of either of them that Dean could easily overpower Castiel—that a shrill laughter escaped Dean’s lips. 

“Was that a joke?”

Castiel shrugged, leaning closer to Dean so they were pressed from shoulder to elbow where they were sitting on the floor. “I have my moments.”

“Yeah, a near-death experience is the perfect moment to start cracking jokes,” Dean laughed.

Castiel turned to look at him, eyes soft and open, no hint of jokes there. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

Dean stared back, stomach churning. He searched for words to answer but his mind came up blank. He turned away, gun still in his hands, waiting. 

***

Aaron Bass was standing right outside Castiel’s room, a phone tucked between ear and shoulder as agents rushed around, escorting the other hotel guests down to the lobby. Dean watched as Bass barked orders at a couple of men nearby, sending them down to find the manager, then returned to his conversation with the agents that were searching the building across the street that the marksman had most likely been in.

Something bumped against his arm, then a bottle of water was pushed in his hands.

“Feeling better?” Castiel muttered under his breath, discreetly looking over his shoulder at all the activity around them.

“Just peachy,” Dean grunted, but clapped a hand on his shoulder as thanks for the water.

The look Castiel turned on him was focused and determined, all the softness and worry that had previously been etched into the lines around his eyes vanished. “Good, because we’re getting out of here.” 

“Out of here?” Dean inquired, lowering his voice to match Castiel’s.

Castiel turned so they were standing face to face, their chests only inches apart as he moved to make sure he was standing between Dean and all the other agents, backing him against the wall. Despite all the stress and the aggravation of the last few hours, Dean’s breath hitched under Castiel’s intense gaze. 

Castiel glanced over his shoulders before saying, “There’s someone out there that wants me dead. Possibly you, too. They know where we’re staying, and more importantly they knew which one was my room. Forgive me if I don’t want to stay where I’m an easy target. Especially when this place is overrun with people I don’t know.”

Dean took a sip from the water bottle, glancing at all the agents rushing about around them. How easy would it be for one of them to be the killer? “You’re one hell of a paranoid bastard, aren’t you?” Dean asked. Then, before Castiel had time to speak, he added, “Good thing I’m the same. I’m thinking your room’s a lost cause for now, but I may still be able to get my stuff. Distract Bass. I’ll get the car and meet you at that bookstore down the road.”

Castiel straightened his back, attempted to fix his skewed tie and made it worse. “Don’t use the elevator.”

“What, you think I’m an amateur?”

“Maybe I just think you’re not exactly in the best mental state right now.” Castiel raised an eyebrow at him, daring Dean to defy him.

Dean couldn’t exactly disagree. “Just talk to Bass.”

Dean didn’t know what Castiel was telling Bass, but he'd barely reached his door and was looking back to see where everyone’s attention was, when he saw almost all of the agents left on the floor disappear inside Castiel’s room. He couldn’t be sure how much time Castiel had just bought him, but Dean figured it was less than two minutes. Good thing he’d never unpacked. He grabbed his duffel and a toiletry bag from the bathroom, and in a matter of seconds he was out of the door again and walking towards the emergency staircase.

Ten minutes later, Dean was waiting inside the car, lowered in his seat. He was parked right outside the bookstore, in such a way that he could see the flurry of movement outside the hotel. Thank God there were so many FBI-issued cars parked in front of the hotel that his own SUV didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.

A silver Audi appeared around the corner, and Dean ducked low, pretending to be searching for something under the passenger seat. He lifted his head only enough to watch the Audi drive down the road. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn the car slowed down while passing in front of the hotel’s entrance. Then the moment passed, and the car sped down the road.

Maybe Castiel’s paranoia was rubbing off on Dean, or maybe Dean was paranoid enough on his own to begin with, but he noted the car’s plate and then wrote it down in his phone. 

Speaking of the devil, Dean saw a man in a pretty familiar trench coat appear under a street light. Dean grinned. Castiel was smart enough to use the garage, too, when he left. Not that Dean ever doubted him. Much.

“Took you long enough,” Dean observed, but his tone was teasing.

Castiel buckled his seatbelt, ignoring the bait. “Any idea where to stay tonight?”

Dean cocked his head to the side, then smiled. “I know a place.”

***

The hotel was as rundown as Dean remembered it, and, thankfully, their stay policies were still as lax as well. The man behind the front desk barely lifted his eyes from his phone to write down the names Dean provided—fake of course, but Dean figured even if he’d given their real names they wouldn’t be legible in that handwriting—then tossed a key to him.

Castiel was waiting by the elevator, Dean’s duffel bag by his legs. He eyed the key Dean dangled in his hand. “Only one room?”

“I’d rather keep an eye on you tonight. You’re quite popular.” 

***

The spring on the mattress shrieked when Dean threw his duffel bag on one of the beds. There were stains on the carpet, and the bathroom door complained loudly when Castiel tried to open it and check inside—paranoid bastard made sure the room was secure and even then didn’t remove his shoulder holster or his gun—but at least the heating was working and the shower didn’t look dirty. Dean had stayed in far worse places. He wondered if the same could be said for Castiel, but his expression was back to its careful resting bitch face that Dean was used to, betraying nothing of his feelings about the room.

“Home, sweet home,” Dean said, throwing his hands out and falling back on the mattress. It wailled its protests, and distantly, Dean hoped Castiel was a heavy sleeper. Dean was not one to stay still while sleeping.

“How did you find this place?” Castiel asked, tilting his head as he examined a picture of what could be either a drowning butterfly or a really ugly old man. Dean guessed abstract drowning butterfly fit a hotel better.

“Used to work a lot of cases out here, back when I was partnered with Benny, remember?” They had even used this hotel to talk with a couple of hookers they’d been trying to get statements from when working a drug case. Ah, good old times. “Which reminds me.”

Dean took his phone out and pressed the app for the contacts. Castiel grabbed his hand, stopping him. “What are you doing?”

“Um, calling Benny?”

“Don’t tell him where we are.”

Dean blinked, trying to understand what Castiel was telling him. “Dude, what the fuck? You think Benny is out to kill you? He’s like a brother to me.”

Castiel gritted his teeth, the muscles on his jaw tensing. “Frankly, Winchester, the only person I  _ don’t  _ think is trying to kill me right about now is you.”

A lopsided grin spread on Dean’s face before he could stop it. He went with it, letting his head fall back down on the bed without breaking eye contact. “Frankly, Novak,” he drawled, his voice dropping lower to imitate Castiel, “You should be more worried about me than Benny. I may have saved you from that bullet, but I haven’t forgotten you pinned me to a wall and threatened me. I’ll get you for that.”

His stomach flipped at the memory of Castiel pressed behind him, but Dean played it cool and kept his smile on. 

Castiel shook his head. “Right. I’ll make sure to sleep with one eye open.”

“Like you weren’t creepy enough already,” Dean teased, delighted at the annoyed huff Castiel gifted him with. He was so fun to pick on, Dean just couldn’t resist. Then the phone in Dean’s hand started ringing. “Ha, Benny beat me to it.”

“Just don’t tell him where we are,” Castiel asked again, his hold on Dean’s hand tightening, the fingers pressing around his wrist burning against Dean’s skin. 

Dean held his gaze, searching Castiel’s face. Then he jerked his head once, offering something like a nod, but which, apparently, was enough. 

Castiel released him, raked a hand through his hair and turned around. “Good. I’m gonna take a shower, if you don’t mind.” 

He shrugged out of his trenchcoat, and Dean stubbornly kept his eyes on his phone, watching the word Lafitte written in white, blocky letters above a vibrating phone. He turned to lie on his side and answered his phone. He was not going to let his eyes wander where they shouldn’t be.

“Winchester.”

“Dean, are you okay? I just got off the phone with Bass,” Benny said almost as soon as Dean picked up. He sounded kind of weird. Worried and anxious, but Dean figured when a friend disappeared from a crime scene where someone had just tried to kill him, this might be an appropriate response.

“Yeah, I’m good, don’t worry. What did Bass say?”

“Not much. He’s pretty pissed off you skipped out on him.”

“Can’t live without me, can he?” Dean stretched on the bed, his holster digging uncomfortably into his side. Behind him, the very distinctive—if Dean could call it that—sound of the bathroom door closing was heard. “I answered all his questions before I left. What’s he complaining about?”

From the other end of the line, Benny sighed. He started a very boring—and very predictable—speech about  _ responsibility _ and  _ protocol _ and  _ rules _ . A discussion they’d had plenty of times before, and that both knew very well was bullshit. Neither had ever cared much about rules and policies. They got the work done faster and better their way. It was what had made them great partners before Benny’s accident. Another thing that had changed since then, apparently.

Dean threw the phone on the bed and pushed himself to sitting, letting Benny talk it out with himself. 

There was the steady pitter-patter of the shower coming from the bathroom, and Castiel’s gravely voice humming underneath that. Who would have guessed Castiel-Uptight-Novak was a man who sang in the shower? His trench coat was resting on the desk chair, neatly folded, and his gun and holster were laid out on the second bed. 

Dean moved mechanically to do the same. Jacket draped over the back of the chair, gun on the table between the beds, holster on the desk.

“—listening? Dean?” Benny’s voice got louder, and Dean brought the phone back to his ear.

“Yeah, I heard you. Kept notes, too.”

“Don’t sass me, brother,” Benny warned, and if one could hear a frown, that was what it would sound like. He rubbed a hand over his eye. It had been a long day, and truthfully, Dean didn’t have much energy to be speaking with anyone right now, including Benny. He came up with some poor excuse and hung up, ignoring his old partner’s muffled protests. 

He needed something to calm his nerves. That usually meant finding a bar, drinking a couple of beers, maybe taking someone back home with him. Seeing as that wasn’t an option for tonight, Dean peered around the room for another distraction. Then his eyes landed on his gun.

His fingers were quick and precise as he unloaded his Colt and made sure there were no rounds left inside. He grabbed the cleaning kit and an old towel he always had with him and sat crossed legged on the bed. Disassembling his gun and going through the motions to clean it helped him stay focused, stopped the trembling of his hands, cleared his mind. It was his ritual. Other people did yoga, Dean cleaned his gun. And fired it, if he had a firing range at hand. Or a living target that pissed him off enough.

Letting muscle memory do all the work, Dean’s mind wandered to more pressing matters. A killer, someone that had already killed the agents after him, now with his eyes set on Castiel. And more than likely, Dean, too. The MO was different, for reasons Dean couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but those were the facts.

With a slide and a press and a  _ click _ , Dean’s gun was whole in his hands again, save for the magazine still laying by his knee. Dean slid that back in its place again, and held the Colt in one hand, finger resting over the trigger. If that crazy psycho wanted a piece of Dean, then Dean said let him try. He was ready to take him on.

The screech of the bathroom door pulled him out of his thoughts. Dean kept his gaze steady on his gun.

“Um—” Castiel cleared his throat, and this time Dean turned to look at him.

A bad idea, really, because Dean’s brain immediately fizzled out at the sight, his throat feeling too tight all of a sudden.

“It didn’t occur to me that I left everything at the other hotel,” Castiel started, only his head and half of his torso visible with the way he leaned through the door. Apparently that was enough to make Dean’s stomach clench. 

Dean had been right, Castiel really was bulkier than him, with tan lines across his shoulders, like he spent a lot of time under the sun wearing only a tank top. There was water dripping from the ends of his hair where it curled over his forehead and behind his ears, drops following the curve of his jaw, travelling on random paths down his throat, beading across broad chest and firm muscles. Dean thought of how easy it would be to close the distance between them and trace those paths with his tongue.

“I mean, literally everything,” Castiel continued, and Dean snapped his eyes back up to Castiel’s, feeling the beginnings of a flush creeping up his neck. “I-uh. I don’t suppose I could borrow something? To sleep in.”

Dean opened and closed his mouth uselessly, trying to find words. “Sure,” he finally managed, jumping out of his bed to rummage in his duffel back for a spare pair of sweatpants he knew he kept in there. He tossed them to Castiel, along with an old t-shirt with a bulldog’s face on it, too shaken to get any closer than where he was already standing.

Castiel gazed down at the clothes and disappeared inside the bathroom again with a thankful smile.

Dean was left alone, the pounding of his pulse against his skull loud enough to drown out any noise Castiel may have been making in the bathroom. This was the second time he found himself worked up over his unfairly hot partner.

Dean shouldn’t be feeling like that. Work and fun did not mix, period. Especially not when the other half of the equation was as no-nonsense as Castiel. And yet Dean was stuck on the way Castiel’s body looked strong enough to hold him down—and Dean now knew from experience that it was, too—and what was probably hidden behind that door covering him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He refused to be aroused by Castiel, he refused. Taking advantage of the few minutes he had left alone, he changed into a pair of cotton pants and a soft band t shirt Sam had bought him when he’d been in college.

He was still smoothing the soft fabric over his stomach when Castiel came back out. The sweatpants Dean had given him were a pair that had shrunk when Dean had tried tumble drying them once, and even though they were too short on Dean, they fit Castiel just fine, falling right below his ankle. And that was pretty much the only part fitting correctly. Everything else was too tight, stretching over Castiel’s thighs, taut over his chest and shoulders. Dean could just imagine the back view if Castiel decided to turn around, and he had to will himself to find that calmness and apathy that was quickly spilling right through his fingers like sand.

And because, evidently, this day was filled with frustration for Dean, and there was no way he’d be allowed to be annoyed at Castiel for being a fucking walking temptation, Castiel, rubbing a towel over his dump hair, turned gentle eyes on Dean and said, “Thank you. For the clothes.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean answered, turning away. “I’m just surprised you don’t sleep in that trench coat.” He meant it as a joke, but his voice came out weak and strained.

Castiel hovered awkwardly a few feet away, a hand half-lifted away from his body, like he was going to reach for Dean but decided against it. The shower had relaxed him, his shoulders no longer high and tight, his mouth a gentle curve instead of a thin line. “I—” he started. Swallowed. “I know today must have been hard for you—”

“I’m fine.” Dean lied sharply. 

He already had enough reasons to stay away from Castiel, and he didn’t need the soft look on his face to be added to that list. He certainly didn’t need Castiel’s pity. He was not a frail damsel in distress that needed a hero to save her. He was fighter, a damn good agent, and he could handle a flashback just fine.

The room felt too small. There was not enough space between him and Castiel. Dean did the only thing that made sense: he grabbed his toiletry bag and hid in the bathroom.

It took him twice the normal time to brush his teeth and wash his face. His stubble hadn’t grown much since this morning, and Dean deemed it acceptable for at least another day. Then, because he had nothing else to do, he stared at his reflection.

He’d have to send a message to Bobby, updating him on the case and the recent attempt against them. It was not a discussion he was looking forward to. At least now they knew their profile of the killer was correct. Even if he wasn’t in law enforcement, he was trained in using firearms. A fucking rifle, too. 

Dean’s shoulders slumped with exhaustion. It’d been a long day.

The room was dark when he emerged from the bathroom, and Castiel was tucked under the blankets of the bed furthest from the room’s door, his gun now resting on the bedside table, next to Dean’s. He was facing away from Dean, looking like he was sleeping, but he wasn’t. Even if the door hadn’t screeched like it’d been possessed when Dean opened and closed it, loud enough to wake the dead, Castiel’s still steady breathing would have been a dead giveaway anyway.

Dean stumbled through the darkness until he found the edge of his own bed and dropped down heavily.

“I felt someone watching us back there,” he admitted in a low voice, almost close to a whisper. 

A beat.

Then: “Back there?”

“The crime scene. While I was waiting for you.”

The bed groaned when Castiel shifted to turn towards Dean, but his expression was hidden behind shadows. A moment of silence, then an exasperated sigh. “At least that explains your little tantrum.” Dean could almost hear Castiel rolling his eyes.

More shuffling and then the table lamp was turned on, casting Castiel’s face in a warm glow. He was frowning. “I need you to talk to me.”

“And tell you what? I had this creepy hunch that someone was following us? I bet you’d have believed that.”

“Maybe I would have. I certainly wouldn’t have thought you were just playing games with my nerves by driving around aimlessly.”

“Right.” Dean rubbed a hand over his face. He found his phone where he’d left it on the bed and wrote a quick message to Bobby, trying to downplay what had happened today. 

“I’m serious,” Castiel said. “You have to talk to me.”

“Will do next time.” 

Message sent, Dean moved his gun cleaning kit back into his duffel bag and got into bed. Castiel’s hand was still holding the lamp switch. “I need to know I can trust you, Dean.”

Castiel was solemn and intense, something panicked tip toeing around the edges of his words. Something urgent that trailed at the end of Dean’s name on Castiel’s lips.

“You can,” Dean reassured him. “Of course you can.”

Castiel searched Dean’s face for any hint of insincerity, then, satisfied, turned off the light and plopped back down. The silence stretched strained between them, and Dean knew Castiel was probably nowhere near sleep, either.

“You were right.” The words were whispered, quiet enough that Dean thought he’d imagined it for a moment. “Your creepy hunch was right. About someone watching us,” Castiel clarified, his thoughts going down the same path as Dean and leading to the murder attempt.

Dean stared at the ceiling, mulling that thought over. “I wish I wasn't.”

“Since we’re being open and stuff,” Castiel started, then cleared his throat. “I found something.”

Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

“One of the people I interviewed today. He’d made a mistake in his previous statement. He didn’t leave his home at five but at seven.”

“Okay,” Dean trailed off, trying to see how that was helping them.

“His son swears Day and Delacruz’s car wasn’t there when they left.”

Dean took a moment to think that through. The car had appeared after the murder had taken place then. “Huh.”

“I should have told you,” Castiel said. 

Dean knew what Castiel had just told him meant, but honestly he was too tired to think about this any further. 

“You know, this is a two way street,” Dean said, finally. “You have to talk to me, too.”

Castiel’s bed creaked, lightly, not like he’d just moved his whole body, but maybe just his head. Was he looking at Dean? In the dark, it was difficult for Dean to gauge his reaction to everything they were saying. “I know.”

“So we’re on the same page?” Dean asked.

“We are.”

“Good.”

Dean rolled over to his side, pulling the blanket over his shoulder, and tried to sleep.

***

Dean was an idiot for worrying about Castiel not being able to sleep with all the squealing and screeching of the mattresses. If anything, it was Dean who had trouble sleeping all night. Instead of tossing and turning and kicking all night, like he’d expected, Dean spent several agonizing hours curled on his side, drifting in and out of sleep, feeling restless from all the tension of the day. And Castiel’s snoring—though faint enough that normally Dean wouldn’t even have noticed—certainly didn’t help.

And so the darkness in the room slowly shifted to the grey haze of dawn, to the first sunlight peeking through the curtains. With a very generous calculation, Dean estimated he’d slept somewhere between three and four hours.

When it was evident he wouldn’t get any more sleep no matter how much he squeezed his eyes closed, he crawled out of bed and shuffled towards the bathroom, taking a clean pair of underwear and his gun along—so he was fucking paranoid, too, sue him. The door, of course, screeched when it opened, and Dean looked guiltily back at Castiel.

Castiel twisted in his bed, making a muffled noise close to a question. 

“Just me,” Dean whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Castiel didn’t need to be told a second time. He settled back into his bed with a soft sigh, rolled over to his other side and promptly started snoring again. Dean was kind of jealous of him. 

Once inside the bathroom, with the door closed behind him, Dean turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up and got rid of his clothes. He stepped under the stream of water, hunching his shoulders to keep them from touching the cold tiles of the walls. The water poured down on him, dripping from his hair and down his sides, relaxing his tense muscles. He hummed, satisfied, finding the sample sized bottles of shampoo the hotel provided, and quickly washed his hair. 

This was exactly what he needed. 

He let the water beat over his head, washing away the soap and bubbles. Maybe if he’d taken a shower last night he’d have slept better. It certainly had worked wonders for Castiel.

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the white tiles in front of him.

He’d promised he wouldn’t do that. He’d forbidden any of those kinds of thoughts from entering his brain, but the images came unbidden to him anyway: Castiel leaning out of the bathroom door, firm muscles, thick arms, blue eyes. Castiel under the shower, water dripping down his chest and belly, and lower, lower.

Dean’s cock stirred with interest, half-hard already. 

He stared down at himself for a moment, thinking that what he should probably do was to turn the water to icy cold until all the desire curling in his belly had been extinguished. But then, he wouldn’t have really dealt with the problem, would he? He was stuck in a room with Castiel and probably would be for a good deal longer. Castiel would be wearing Dean’s too tight clothes, that hugged his thighs and showed off the breadth of his back. Dean had already seen him—or at least half of him—naked, and that could happen again.

So really the better option was probably to just get it out of his system.

Dean pressed the flat of his palm over his cock. The image came to him almost instantly: Castiel in the shower, water dripping down his neck, head thrown back in a silent moan. 

Dean wrapped his hand around his cock and gave one long, slow pull. He imagined Castiel doing the same thing, maybe biting the inside of his cheek, trying to keep quiet, eyes half open. He thought of pink, plush lips parted, skin flushed, muscles clenching, and then he thought about all that glorious expanse of skin he’d glimpsed earlier. A few scars here and there, scars Dean could easily map with his mouth.

Dean closed his eyes, stroking himself to full hardness. He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t be doing this, but there was heat quickly rising up his spine, and Dean couldn’t stop. 

He swallowed down a groan, his mind moving from the fantasy of Castiel alone in the shower, to Castiel pinning Dean down to a bed.

He stroked faster, heart beating erratically in his chest. He ached for release, ached for rough hands to touch him, ached to feel Castiel’s solid weight above him, and then his brain provided another fantasy—no, a  _ memory _ . 

He was so close, so close. He planted a hand on the wall, resting his forehead against the cool tile. He tightened his hold on his cock, jerking faster. He thought of Castiel’s breath behind his ear when he’d pinned him against the wall, his leg between Dean’s. He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood on his tongue.

There was a tight pull inside him, building and building. He twisted his hand, rubbing his thumb over the slit, the ghost of Castiel’s body pressing behind him, whispering, and Dean slipped over the edge, coming with a muffled cry. 

He stood, leaning against the wall, the water already washing away all evidence of his work. He was still panting hard, mind drifting somewhere between the overwhelming relief of his orgasm and the worry that Castiel could have heard him, and then somebody started banging on the door.

Dean reacted on instinct. He jumped out of the shower, grabbed his gun and burst through the door.

“What the fuck, Winchester,” Castiel called out, and Dean had only enough time to scan the room—empty, save for a disheveled Castiel—before he was pushed back into the bathroom, hard enough to stumble back and hit against the sink.

Pain shot up, and Dean reached to palm his side, where he was sure there’d be a bruise forming soon. “Fuck,” he groaned. 

“Put some clothes on,” Castiel shouted from the room.

Gun still in hand, Dean fumbled around until he found a towel to wrap around his middle. “Dude, I thought someone was attacking us,” he complained, stepping out of the bathroom. “I could have shot you.”

Castiel turned to look at him, eyes falling on the tattoo under his collarbone, then quickly moving up to stare at a spot high above Dean’s head. A blush was quickly blossoming across his face. He shook his head, swallowed and said, “Another body was found half an hour ago.”


	5. Eeny, meeny, miny… Moe

Castiel Novak

The place was swarming with police officers when they arrived. It was another run down building—the walls in the upper floors collapsed in some places, windows boarded and sealed. Castiel took out his badge, and a man lifted the yellow tape closing off the crime scene to let them pass.

“God, doesn’t this guy ever need a break? It was less than twelve hours ago that he was shooting at us,” Dean complained, leading the way towards the front door.

“He’s an overachiever, apparently,” Castiel grumbled, and he thought he saw Dean biting back a smile.

They climbed the stairs up to the entrance. Then the front door swung open, barely missing Dean’s nose, and Aaron Bass came stumbling out. He was pale and looked as though he was about to be sick. His hands were shaking.

“Bass,” Dean grabbed his elbow, stopping him from walking away. “What happened?”

Castiel came closer, feeling his muscles tense with worry. Whatever the killer had done to his newest victim, it was bad enough to have shaken up an experienced agent like Bass.

Bass turned to them, eyes wide, like he’d just noticed them there. “I—Fuck.” He pressed the heels of his palms on his eyes. “Fuck—I need—” He shook his arm free and walked away.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dean wondered.

Castiel watched as Bass stumbled towards his car, opened the door and collapsed inside, head against the wheel. “I don’t know,” he said. He turned grim eyes on Dean. “But I think we’re about to find out.”

***

Annie Hawkins looked peaceful as she lay on the table, head lolled to the side. She could have been sleeping but for the black hole between her eyes and the thin river of blood drying down her nose. Blood and brain matter were spattered on the wall across from the door. 

Not for the first time, Castiel thought it was a blessing the killer never tortured his victims before killing them. Though being abducted, spending their last moments with terror choking them, the knowledge they were about to die settling heavy on them—wasn’t that a form of torture as well?

Distantly Castiel was almost thankful that at least the attempt against his own life would have truly been quick and merciful. If the killer had been a good shot, Castiel would have died without even knowing he was in danger in the first place. He thought about walking into the room alone, Dean finding him the next morning in a pool of his own blood. He shuddered.

He ought to thank Dean Winchester again for saving his life.

Dean had a hand over his mouth, his eyes stuck on the dark, dried blood on Hawkin’s hair. “Jesus Christ.”

“Failing to kill us didn’t stop him from going after somebody else,” Castiel observed, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. He hadn't known Agent Hawkins long, hadn't even spent more than a few hours in the same room as her, but she'd looked like she had a good head on her shoulders. She hadn't deserved a death like that.

His eyes wandered the room, taking in the police officers photographing and noting evidence, and then landed on Crowley.

He was standing in the corner furthest from the table Hawkins’ body was on, typing furiously away on his cellphone.

Castiel elbowed Dean, nodding with his head towards Crowley. 

“God, not him again,” Dean groaned, only for Castiel to hear, before he raised his voice. “Hey. Crowley right?”

Crowley’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing at their direction. “You again.”

Castiel followed behind Dean, who raised his badge. “Special Agent Winchester. Are you the one in charge around here?”

“I am,” said Crowley through gritted teeth. He didn’t look happy to see them at all.

“Yeah, not anymore,” Dean snapped, putting his badge back in his pocket. He circled a finger, gesturing around the room. “We’re taking over, you can pack your things and go. Take your boys as well.”

“Excuse me?” Crowley looked between Castiel and Dean incredulously.

Personally, Castiel couldn’t see why he had so much trouble understanding what was being asked of him. It was clear this investigation belonged to the Bureau, and if Bass hadn’t been so out of it, no one but the first response officer should have been allowed in here until the FBI’s team had arrived.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Castiel said, cutting off Dean who was surely about to say something a lot less polite. “This is part of the tri-state murders investigation, and you’re no longer part of that.”

Crowley sneered, his mouth twisting in disgust. “If all you agents weren't so stuck up, you might not be turning up dead in old basements,” he said. 

Dean took a step forward. “Is that a threat?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. With his back straight and shoulders pulled back, the height difference between him and Crowley was even more jarring. He looked imposing and threatening, and even though Castiel had overpowered him just last night, a shiver traced its fingertips down his spine at the sight.

Castiel was no fool. He knew the only reason he’d gotten the upper hand on Dean was because he’d caught him by surprise. However, no matter how much he hated that Dean looked down on him enough to think Castiel wouldn’t fight back when provoked, there was a part of him that had wanted to touch, to explore, to let his hands linger. And that was probably scarier than ending up in the hospital with a black eye and a couple of broken ribs.

“I’ve been working on this case day and night since the first body turned up,” Crowley said, pulling Castiel out of his thoughts. “What makes you so much better? Why do you get to sweep in after three months of people dying and call the shots?”

Dean’s nostrils flared, and Castiel knew he had to end this now, or risk this conversation turning physical. He stepped forward, placing himself effectively between Dean and Crowley. “Thank you for securing the crime scene, but you need to leave.”

Crowley raised his chin, meeting Castiel’s eyes straight on. “And what if I refuse?”

“Oh please do. Give me some excuse to arrest you for trespassing and obstruction of a federal investigation,” Dean said, his voice low and gravelly. Castiel felt goosebumps up his arms.

“How dare you threaten me,” Crowley hissed. 

From the corner of his eye, Castiel saw the couple of agents inside the room turning to look at them, hovering uncertainly around the body.

“I’m just telling you how things are,” Dean said, surprisingly calm. “Now get out of here or you can spend the rest of the day having a nice conversation with my handcuffs.”

For a moment, it looked like Crowley wouldn’t budge. But then he scoffed, took a step back and snapped his fingers. The other cops immediately turned to look at him for directions, and in less than five minutes they’d gathered their stuff and were gone.

“Can you believe that dickhead?” Dean asked, staring at Crowley’s retreating back. 

Looking around the room, Castiel sighed. “Come on we have work to do.”

It didn’t take long for the forensics team to arrive, and the coroner was right behind them. In half an hour, Castiel and Dean had the men formed in two teams: one to stay with Castiel and document everything inside the basement and photograph the crime scene, and one to clear the rest of the building.

It was slow progress, made even more difficult by the little light they were afforded by the small windows high on the walls. Except for the coroner and his assistant, only two more men stayed with Castiel, one of them following behind Castiel as he slowly made his way around the room and recorded everything on a piece of paper. They made sure not to touch anything for their first time around, taking only pictures. Then they started their second walkthrough, this time noting down any evidence they found, and taking close up photos of them from multiple angles.  They marked the chains that were thrown by the table, every drop of blood inside the room, Hawkins' gun, tossed in a corner empty and useless, the body, the table, the piles of broken glass around the room that Castiel was sure were the product of some drunk homeless man and not the killer’s. 

By the time they were finished, there weren’t many evidence markers around the room, but Castiel wasn’t surprised. The killer had never left a trace before, and he wouldn’t start now, if he could help it. But all they needed was one mistake. The killer wouldn’t be so lucky all the time.

It was almost lunch time when Castiel finished talking with the coroner, and the two agents from the evidence collection team went outside to take a break. At the sound of footsteps approaching, Castiel turned from where he was standing by the wall inspecting the bloody mess to see Pamela approaching him.

“I came as soon as I found out,” she said, stepping on the path they’d cleared for the agents to walk on without disturbing the scene. 

Castiel nodded, waiting for her to come stand next to him. “The coroner said she's been dead for less than four hours. There are bruises around her wrists, probably from chains. She was brought here alive.”

Pamela physically paled, her lips thinning. “Sick fucker,” she cursed.

Near them, the coroner and his assistant lifted Hawkins—Castiel still had trouble thinking of her as a body, as the victim, no matter how much time he’d just spent listening to theories about her murder—and placed her inside a plastic bag. Castiel suddenly realized he didn’t even know if she had any family, a husband or children. 

He thought of Aaron Bass and how he’d been close with Hawkins. How he’d reacted to coming here and finding his partner dead on a table. How he’d already lost three of his co-workers, and probably friends. “Where's Bass?” he asked Pamela, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I saw him outside,” she said, nodding with her head towards the direction of the street. “Saw Dean, too, checking the area around the building.”

“And how is he?”

“Dean?” Pamela asked, confused.

Castiel blinked. “Agent Bass.”

“Oh.” Pamela chewed her lower lip in thought. “You know, not good. He tried to help secure the building, but he was more trouble that help. I’m going to drive him back to the office, he's no good here in his current state.”

Castiel nodded absently, thankful that at least someone had the time to take care of Bass. 

The coroner and his assistant grabbed the body bag from an end each and lifted it off the ground, taking Hawkins back to the morgue with them for an autopsy. Castiel kept his eyes on the now empty table, the old sheet that’d been used to cover Hawkins up to the chest, the dark stain of her blood on the wooden surface. He breathed. 

He had work to do. 

Pamela didn’t stick around long. She was gone even before the agents returned from their break and started the painstakingly careful work of collecting and labelling all the evidence that would be taken back to the laboratory. One of them took samples from the blood on the wall, the other bagged and tagged the sheet and the chains. Castiel watched them carefully, kept an eye on them while they worked and documented everything that was removed from the scene. 

They were dusting for prints—though Castiel was sure they wouldn’t have much luck finding anything useful—when Dean wandered back inside. “I just talked with Benny, he’s trying to figure out what Hawkins was doing last night.”

“Any luck?” Castiel asked, gesturing for them to talk out in the hallway.

“Not much,” Dean shook his head. “But it’s still early. How are things in here?”

“Moving. We have all of the scene documented, and I have an agent keeping track of who comes and goes. They’ve collected the body too.”

Dean hummed, watching from the edge of the door as the agents moved methodically around the room. “I checked the perimeter. There’s a car outside that might belong to Hawkins, but I’m still waiting confirmation on that.”

Another car left outside the crime scene. Castiel wasn’t exactly surprised, but he was worried the killer was changing his signature. If he’d started using different methods, it might be more difficult to find him, or even recognize one of the murders as his work. “Did you secure the area?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Do I look like I'm stupid?”

“Just checking,” Castiel shrugged. 

“I’ll even double check the part of the building Bass was in charge of if you want.”

“Yes, please do that.”

By the time they were finished with the crime scene, the sun was setting, casting the street outside in warm shadows. They’d written a first draft of names of witnesses they wanted to interview but it was dishearteningly short, and although Benny had called Dean confirming the car outside the building really did belong to Hawkins, it felt like they had nothing. No evidence.

“Hey,” Dean called from the front door. Castiel nodded at the agent standing there guarding the door and followed Dean inside.

“Did you check the rest of the building?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d been hunched over for so many hours he was sore all over.

“I did. The front door is the only easily accessible entrance,” Dean said, hands pushed in his pockets. He looked around him, kicking a piece of broken brick around. “At least we have a chance of somebody seeing the bastard coming and going.”

As much as Castiel appreciated Dean’s positive thinking, he hadn’t much hope left inside him. “We thought that about the last crime scene, too, didn't we?”

Dean jerked one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Hey, want the grand tour of the place, be my guest. You won’t find another entrance.”

“So interviews is the next step,” Castiel concluded.

Dean turned to look at him with a hint of mischief in his eyes.  He weighted Castiel for a moment, making him feel slightly uncomfortable under the sudden attention. Castiel had the urge to loosen his tie, open the top button of his shirt, do something to relieve the warmth that was quickly engulfing him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Finally Dean gestured for Castiel to follow him.

They walked around the ground floor, through a maze of hallways, until they reached a heavy metal door in the back of the building.

Castiel pressed his palm flat on the door, feeling the cool metal under his fingers. “What's behind here?”

“Don't know,” Dean said. “Doors locked, couldn't open it. Bass was supposed to clear this part of the building—clearly he didn’t, for whatever reason—but now that it's just the two of us maybe we can work something out.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him. “Work something out?”

Dean raised his hands, palms out in surrender. “If you don't tell, neither will I.”

“Winchester, what are you doing?” Castiel questioned.

Dean pushed him to the side with a quick wink, then crouched in front of the door’s lock. “Just make sure nobody comes looking, okay?”

Castiel stood to the side and watched as Dean retrieved a set of lockpicking tools from his pocket, trying to comprehend why an FBI agent even knew how to pick locks, let alone why he walked around with the tools on him. He thought he’d better not ask.

“I thought it might be a storage or something, but then I figured why put a storage room behind a metal door that thick,” Dean muttered as he worked. Castiel figured he wasn’t expecting an answer so he just let Dean ramble on. “But what else could be here? Central heating is at our crime scene so we don’t have many options left, and I counted the steps and it’s not far enough in the back of the building to be a back door.”

He turned the thin piece of metal inside the lock, twisting the other tool and a soft click was heard. Dean turned to Castiel grinning from ear to ear. “But I guess we’re going to find out.”

The door creaked open on rusty hinges. Behind it, there was a narrow staircase, its bottom lost to the darkness. Dean and Castiel peeked down, trying to make out any shapes that might betray where it led, but the only thing they could see was the old staircase and the half destroyed railing hanging from dirty brick walls. 

Dean let a low whistle out. “Sweet. You think there are ghosts down there?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at him, the eerie staircase forgotten for a second. “You believe in ghosts?”

Dean shrugged. “You don't?”

Castiel stared at him, long enough that Dean’s serious face cracked, and he burst out laughing.

“Come on, man. I'm just kidding.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’d rather you didn't while we're working.”

Dean shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, rocking back and forth impatiently. “Wanna check it out?”

Castiel gazed down at the staircase. He took a step to the side and opened his arms in an invitation. “After you.”

“Oh, such a gentleman,” Dean cooed, bringing a hand over his chest. “The ladies must be going crazy for you.”

Castiel sighed, making Dean laugh again as he took his phone out to use as a flashlight. Then he stepped through the door and started the descent.

Castiel kept close behind him, his own phone out to light their way down. The lower they reached, the cooler the air felt around them, until Castiel was glad to still be wearing his trench coat. The atmosphere felt heavier down there, and sticky. Soon the sound of their footsteps was joined by the steady beating of water dripping from somewhere. Castiel counted the steps as they moved lower and lower, until he was sure they must be deeper than the basement where they’d found Hawkins.

He really hoped they weren’t about to discover some sort of torture room.

Finally, Dean reached the end of the staircase. The opening was short enough that both of them had to duck their head slightly, but then the area became larger and taller, and they found themselves standing in the middle of a large passageway. 

They shone their light around, finding water dripping from cracked pipes running along the ceiling and garbage all over the floor. Unlike the staircase, the passageway wasn’t completely dark. Castiel could make out faint lights further down in both directions, but Dean’s light revealed a broken light bulb hanging above them, a few feet to their right.

“How cool is that?” Dean asked.

A hand resting on his gun, Castiel looked around. “Cool isn’t the term I’d use.”

“Come on, man,” Dean said, kicking a tin can. “Creepy old tunnels underneath a murder scene? This is the definition of cool.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, trying to see the end of the tunnel in both directions. “Where do you think they lead?”

Dean alternated pointing down both directions as he chanted, “Eeny, meeny, miny… Moe.” He nodded towards their right. “Let’s find out.”

Castiel didn’t want to admit that he was getting nervous, but the tunnels were pretty far down beneath the ground, and for the most part, there was no light to guide their way or help them keep an eye on their surroundings. There could be anyone down there and they wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Instinctively, Castiel pressed closer to Dean, their arms now brushing as they walked. They were close enough that with each inhale he could smell hints of Dean’s aftershave, under the scent of stagnant water and mold that dominated the air. It was strangely comforting, as was his body heat so close to Castiel.

Dean for his part, had sobered up, all his teasing and joking gone. Castiel was thankful that he was alert, because he had half-expected him to start whistling like they were taking a morning stroll through the park.

They walked around for a few minutes, never seeing anything alive other than a couple of rats here and there and plenty of spiders, but soon they had to trace their steps back. The tunnels stretched pretty far, and there were plenty of paths sprouting here and there, more openings further down that Castiel guessed were staircases, similar to the one they’d used to get down here. It was like they had found themselves dropped in a maze, and since they had no idea where the entrance or exit were—or who else might be lurking down there—they silently agreed not to stray far. 

They’d barely walked what Castiel thought must be a couple of blocks underneath the city when Dean turned them around. Thank God they found the staircase that led back to the murder scene fairly easy. Castiel was more than ready to get out of there.

“Hey, check this out,” Dean said, pointing his light at the wall right next to the staircase opening.

Castiel came closer, leaning forward to examine the large symbol scrawled there. They’d found graffiti and crude drawings all around the walls, but this one was different. For one, it wasn’t drawn but carved into the brick, and secondly, it was a symbol Castiel could vaguely recognize.

“Hobo glyphs,” he said.

Dean turned his light from the symbol to Castiel’s face, blinding him. “Hobo what?”

“Hobo glyphs,” Castiel gritted out, shooing the phone away. “They are symbols homeless drifters used in the past as messages to help each other out,” he explained.

Dean’s brows squished together in confusion. “So like a secret language?”

Castiel shook his head from side to side softly, considering that. “Yeah, something like a secret language.”

Dean nodded, eyes wide and impressed going back to the symbol on the wall. “Okay, so what does this one mean?”

Castiel chewed on his lower lip, trying to recall the list of symbols he’d found in a book he’d read several years before. “I- I’m not sure. I don't remember all of them. I think it means safe space.”

Dean slapped the back of his hand against Castiel’s shoulder. “Dude, you either speak hobo or you don't.”

Castiel straightened up, knees popping. “I don't speak hobo, Winchester. And as a matter of fact nobody speaks hobo anymore. This was a system they used in the 19th century.”

Dean traced two fingers over the symbol, fingers following the X in the center, then circling over the eyes around it. “This mark right here doesn't look that old. A couple of weeks? Maybe a bit longer.”

“You can tell that just by looking at it?” Castiel asked, forgetting not to sound half-impressed.

Dean glanced at him, then shrugged. “My dad’s idea of summer vacation was camping out in the wilderness,” he said. “Campers had a similar method of leaving messages behind. Dad taught me what they meant, how to figure out how old they were. I also learned to track animals and shit. You can think of it as Boy Scouts on drugs.”

“Sounds like fun,” Castiel said. Dean’s time as a marine must have honed that skill to perfection. 

Dean exhaled, long and tired. “God, I promise you it wasn’t. This one time, Sammy—my brother—stuck his hand inside a hornet's nest by accident. Got stung a couple dozen times, and we were a six hour hike from civilization, too. I mean it’s funny now, Sammy being the smart one, and yet his big brain didn’t stop him from being the biggest idiot, but back then... man.” Dean visibly shuddered at the memory.

“Your brother’s fine though, right?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah, sure is,” Dean laughed, face instantly brightening up. Something warm settled inside Castiel at the sight. Dean actually looked young when he wasn’t a giant sulking baby. “Big shot lawyer out in Cali. Beautiful wife, large house, a dog. Like I said, he’s the smart one. Though compared to me that’s not really hard to pull off I guess, but hey he’s really smart, I promise. Our younger brother’s pretty good, too.”

Castiel tilted his head, eyes searching Dean’s face. “You don’t think you’re smart?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “I’m well trained. Practical. Good with my hands,” he ticked off with his fingers. Then he pointed back to the symbol. “And this mark right here is not from the 19th century.”

Castiel hadn’t really thought that the symbol was on the wall since the 19th century, but he could recognize a change of subject when he saw it. A symbol marking a hidden entrance to their murder scene—and left only a couple of weeks before their murder, too—was pretty interesting.

“Could the killer have left it behind?” he wondered aloud.

“Don’t know,” Dean said. A pause, then: “Hey, we’re pretty close to where Day and Delacruz were found right?”

Castiel tried to visualize the map of the area in his mind. “Yeah, a few blocks away maybe? You’re the New York expert.”

Dean turned to look around them, his light tracing a path on the walls. “Do you think one of these tunnels could be leading there, too?”

“We checked the whole building,” Castiel pointed out. He tried to think of any mention of a locked door in the reports and came up with nothing. Then a thought occurred to him. “There was no door left unopened. Unless…” 

“Wanna share with the rest of the class?”

“You said the tracks on the floor lead to the back door, not the front. To the closed terrace, remember?”

Dean’s eyes widened, the same realization hitting him, too. “The one shared by all the houses on the block. Fuck. One of the other buildings could be accessed by the tunnels, and we would have never noticed.”

Castiel nodded. “And he could have used that to move the agents. He brought the car later to cover his tracks.”

“Shit,” Dean cursed. “We need to check it out.”

Castiel felt a chill down his spine, and it had nothing to do with the low temperature down in the tunnels. “We have to be discreet. If the killer really is somebody close to us we can’t let him know we discovered the tunnels.”

“You want to keep this a secret?” Dean asked surprised.

“You literally picked the lock. Don’t tell me you care about the rules all of a sudden.”

Dean lifted his arms in surrender, inadvertently pointing his light in Castiel’s eyes and making him wince. “Okay, I see your point. I’m just surprised you’re so paranoid, is all.”

“I have reasons to be,” Castiel growled, lifting a hand to cover his eyes.

Dean lowered the phone, turned and stepped first up the stairs. “I don’t mind. We can keep this between us.”

Castiel felt a heaviness lift from inside him when they finally stepped back onto the ground floor. They finished securing the crime scene, checking with the agent guarding the entrance, and they walked back to their car. 

Dean slid behind the wheel, starting the car. “So wanna check our tunnel theory?”

Castiel checked his phone—no missed calls—then quickly typed a new message. “I have a friend in Cyber. She can be discreet and do some research for us under the table.”

“Research?”

“The tunnels,” Castiel explained, finishing his text and hitting send. “There have to be records. Plans. Easier to search for those than start searching building after building.”

Charlie was busy most of the time, but Castiel hoped she’d find a free moment to do him this small favour in the next couple of days. If he was going down there again he’d rather know where he was going.

Dean drummed his fingers against the wheel. “Okay. So what do we do? Wanna grab dinner? It’s getting pretty late.”

It really was pretty late, and Castiel, who hadn’t taken a break for lunch, had felt his stomach complaining for at least a few hours now. But there was one more thing he needed to do.

“I wanted to stop by our old hotel first,” he said. “To grab my stuff.”

“Okay, then. It’s decided. Hotel first, then pizza,” Dean declared.

“Pizza?” Castiel asked. Not that he minded, but Dean had a bad habit of making all decisions relating to food without any input from Castiel, and that was quickly becoming old.

“Trust me,” Dean said, patting him on the shoulder. “I know the best Italian place around here—has the best mozzarella sticks you’ve ever tried.”

Cas raised an eyebrow but faced the front without a comment. The burgers they had the other day had been delicious, and he felt he could trust Dean when he said  _ best mozzarella sticks. _

***

“Well, shit,” Dean said, slowly making his way around the room. 

Everything was turned upside down, clothes scattered all over the floor, drawers still left open, bed sheets rumpled and tossed to a corner. Somebody had been in Castiel’s room, and they hadn’t even bothered to try and cover their tracks. 

Carefully, Castiel walked towards the window and drew the curtains closed. He wasn’t making the second mistake twice. There was a tingling sensation spreading through his fingers, one that had him reaching a hand to his gun to make sure it was still there.

Dean gathered one of the shirts piled by the bed, examining it. “I don't remember things being like that last time I was in here,” he observed.

Castiel swallowed thickly. “They weren't. And I’m sure it's not Bass who did this.”

Bass and his agents had no reason to go through his stuff, and they’d pretty much finished with his room by the time Dean and Castiel had skipped out on them. Which meant somebody else had come later to search for something.

“What were they looking for?” Dean asked, echoing the question in Castiel’s mind.

“I don't know,” Castiel said. He gathered some of the clothes closest to him and tossed them on the bed. Yes, he was paranoid, but there was only one explanation for this mess. “Us maybe?” 

Dean clenched his jaw. He grabbed Castiel’s travel bag from where it had been tossed and pushed it towards Castiel. “Come on, let's get your stuff. The sooner we leave this hotel the better.”

They made quick work of gathering everything, Castiel throwing things haphazardly in his bag, while Dean tried to at least fold the clothes before placing them carefully inside, taking so much time that Castiel snapped at him— _ Fucking leave it, Winchester, we don’t have the time. _

The sour look Dean turned on him was answer enough, but he did start gathering stuff faster. 

Dean’s stuff, Castiel had noticed yesterday, had all been neatly placed inside his duffel bag, everything folded and rolled and in its proper place. When Castiel had worn Dean’s clothes last night he’d noted they were old and well worn but in as good a condition as they could be, clean and freshly ironed. And that was just Dean’s spare. He didn’t look it from the way he carried himself, but Dean was very careful with his stuff. From the way he drove the car, smooth and confident—at least when he wasn’t worried somebody was following him—to the way he carefully folded his pants so the crease was always laying right. Castiel didn’t know if it was his upbringing, his time as a marine or if it was just how Dean was, but he handled everything with gentle hands and patience. In complete contrast to how he acted when the word "interviews" was mentioned. 

Nobody was perfect, Castiel figured. He himself wasn’t exactly a freak of organization, but he tried to keep his things clean and his space somewhat tidy. In this situation though, there was no reason for Dean to be pouting about balling everything up and going.

To Castiel’s great relief, he’d left his laptop in the car, so at least he could be sure nobody had the opportunity to search his files—or worse, bug it.

A few minutes later, Dean backed out of the hotel’s garage in one swift motion, and soon they were speeding down the road and making a right turn towards the direction of their new hotel.

“So, no pizza for dinner?” Castiel guessed, his bag clutched tightly in his lap. His knuckles had turned white, but it was better than loosening his grip and letting Dean see how much his hands were shaking. 

Somebody had been in his room. Somebody was looking for them, probably to kill them, and Castiel had the sinking feeling that they wouldn’t be able to dodge that bullet for much longer.

Dean glanced at him quickly. If he noticed how tight Castiel’s hold on the bag was, he didn’t comment. “They deliver, too.”

Castiel nodded, shakily. “Thank God for small mercies.”

***

Dean placed the pizza boxes on his bed—ordered with a fake name and delivered to the front desk where Dean had paid with cash—and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair. “Dinner’s served.”

Castiel, wearing only his pants and shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moved to sit at the edge of Dean’s bed, his back to the headboard. He pulled one of the boxes towards him, and opened it to inspect the food. It smelled delicious, and the sight of the melted cheese and crispy crust made his mouth water. 

Dean had unbuttoned his shirt, and he turned around when he started taking it off, his back to Castiel. 

Castiel couldn’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms moving as Dean removed his shirt and bent to the side to pick a band tee from his duffel bag. The movement made his pants stretch over his ass and thighs. He had freckles on his shoulders and up the back of his neck, a particularly dark one just behind his ear. Scars and wounds peppered his skin. There were a couple of round ones that had to be gunshot wounds, and then a lot more, smaller, thinner, straight lines, curved lines. Dean pulled the tee over his head and down his torso, and Castiel looked away. 

Taking a bite from his first slice, Castiel chewed slowly. He took a moment to recollect his thoughts as Dean changed to his pyjama pants, and then he said, “Do we agree that whoever went through my room was probably trying to find a clue as to where we are?”

Dean looked at him over his shoulders, hands busy folding his suit pants. “I can't think of anything else,” he agreed. “Whoever tried to kill you—whoever killed Hawkins—knows we’ve moved.”

“And is looking for us,” Castiel added, before taking another bite. Dean had been right. This could easily be the best pizza Castiel had ever eaten.

“Shit,” Dean exclaimed, pausing for a second. He twisted his upper half to stare at Castiel, eyes wide. “He could have been following us all this time. Maybe we're not safe here either.”

Castiel swallowed and sucked the grease off his thumb. Half of his brain—the paranoid half—wanted to toss everything back into his bag and find a new hotel, but the other half was still thinking of the facts and the evidence they had. “We don't know that,” he said, looking at Dean and catching him snapping his eyes up to Castiel’s face again with a small flush. “If he knew where we were staying, why go through the trouble of searching my stuff?”

The left side of Dean’s lips tugged up in a playful smirk. “Maybe he has a secret crush on you. Some people really dig the creepy, frowny—” he gestured vaguely at Castiel, “—death glare thing you have going on."

Castiel blinked slowly. “Winchester, remember how I said the only reason I haven't shot you is the paperwork? Well, paperwork seems damn appealing now,” he said, but there was no real heat behind his words.

Dean’s grin only widened. “I'd like to see you try.” Clothes safely back to their right place, he crawled on the bed to sit cross legged by Castiel’s side. He opened the second box and started eating.

“I remember you saying something similar about physical fights,” Castiel pointed out, catching a piece of bacon and melted cheese that had fallen from his slice and throwing it in his mouth.

“Hey, that was a one-time thing only,” Dean complained, a hand over his mouth to cover his chewing. “Next time you won't have the element of surprise on your side.”

“Oh, so there will be a second time?” Castiel asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Dean hummed softly as he chewed. “If you play your cards right.”

“I don't have to, you’re too easy,” Castiel said and leaned in to steal a slice of Dean’s pizza.

“Hey,” Dean complained around a bite of his own slice, and Castiel laughed.

“So easy,” he teased, but he offered one of his own in repayment.

Dean finished his slice, swallowed, and used his thumb to clean the edge of his mouth, tongue darting out quickly to moisten his lips. Then he lowered his head and looked up at Castiel, fluttering his eyelashes. “I’m not that kind of girl,” he said, making his voice higher and pretending to be coy. “You’ll have to take me on a date first.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, crumpled a paper towel and threw it at him. Dean easily caught it. 

“Don’t forget about the mozzarella sticks,” Dean said using his foot to press the third box towards Castiel.

“I’ll weigh a ton by the time we finish with this case,” Castiel complained, but he opened the box and grabbed two of the mozzarella sticks.

“Wait, wait,” Dean said. He dropped his half-eaten slice into his pizza box and fished among the mozzarella sticks until he came up with two small plastic containers. “I’m more of a honey mustard man, myself,” he said, opening them and carefully placing them back in the box. “But I got barbecue, too, in case you don’t like it.”

“How thoughtful,” Castiel joked. “I’m surprised.”

He dipped his stick into the honey mustard and brought it quickly to his mouth, holding a paper towel underneath to catch any dressing drops. The taste was so amazing he almost moaned. The cheese was perfectly melted and the outside was crispy and warm and not at all soggy. The honey mustard, though not a choice Castiel would have made himself, complimented the slight acidity of the cheese perfectly. It was an epiphany.

“I think you’ve just ruined mozzarella sticks for me,” Castiel complained, reaching for more dressing.

“Yeah, I’m the easy one,” Dean laughed, but his eyes were warm as he watched Castiel.

Castiel felt heat rising inside his belly and chest. He turned his eyes away, swallowed and focused on his food. 

They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, and for the first time it didn’t feel awkward to be in the same room without conversation of their case as a buffer. It was almost companionable. Dean shifted on the bed, until he, too, was resting his back against the headboard, his knee bumping Castiel’s thigh. Castiel stayed there. 

They exchanged a couple slices more and ate until their stomachs were full and neither could eat one more bite, but they finished everything. 

Drowsy and loose limbed, Castiel grunted as he pushed himself to stand up again. He stretched his arms over his head, spine popping, and searched his coat’s pocket for his phone. 

No missed calls. Again. He tried not to let the disappointment get to him.

“Wife?”

At first, what Dean had asked didn’t register, so Castiel’s only response was, “Hm?”

“Nah, you're not wearing a wedding ring,” Dean said, cocking an eyebrow. “So girlfriend?”

Castiel placed the phone on the desk, screen down, and turned to stare at Dean surprised. “What are you—”

“Is it a boyfriend? Come on. Don't be shy. I'm an open minded person you know.” Dean was still sitting crossed legged on his bed, head pushed up against the headboard, empty boxes in front of him, an insufferable expression all over his face.

Castiel stared at him and stared at him and still failed to understand what Dean was asking.

“The phone,” Dean said, looking at Castiel from under his lashes. “Who are you waiting to call?”

Castiel’s blood ran instantly cold. “It's none of your damn business,” he said, voice low and unsteady. He was pulling away, bringing all his walls back up again, and any kind of comfort he’d found with Dean just a few moments ago was quickly disappearing now.

Dean raised his arms in surrender. “Alright, alright. Jeez, it's not like I'm trying to steal your girl or something.” He tapped a finger against his knee. “Should probably call my brother, though.”

Dean grabbed his phone, unaware of the coldness spreading inside Castiel.

Maybe Castiel was overreacting, but he couldn’t help it if his knee jerk reaction to this topic was a fight or flight response. And Dean was being a dick about it, too. Castiel had forgotten how much of an asshole Dean was, but now the curtain blinding him had been drawn back, and all he could feel was a tenseness settling heavy on his shoulders.

Fuck it. It was late enough already, and Castiel didn’t need to hear Dean chatting with his brother. He grabbed his stuff, walked to the bathroom, closed the door and prepared to take a shower.

He came out about fifteen minutes later, his skin red and warm from scrubbing and cleaning, but still unsettled on the inside. The clothes Dean had lent him were sitting on top of his bag, but Castiel had chosen to wear his own dark sweatpants and Academy t shirt.

Dean had finished with his call, and was scrolling through his phone. He paused, looked up at Castiel but said nothing. Castiel pretended he hadn’t seen him looking.


	6. Do you trust Novak?

Dean Winchester

The atmosphere at the office was heavy with grief and low-simmering fury. Someone had pinned a picture of Annie Hawkins on the board, next to the rest of the victims, a few hastily written notes about her murder underneath her name and age. Dean’s eyes lingered on the glossy photos, moving from the faces of criminals to the faces of agents and coworkers. The number of the photos up there kept growing, and their own numbers kept shrinking, as evidenced by the empty chair next to Aaron Bass. 

Bass was staring determinedly at the reports in front of him, but Dean doubted he was actually reading anything. 

Benny, sitting across from Bass, kept his attention on the crime scene photos, a thumb playing with the edge of one of the photos. Dean slapped a hand on his shoulder as a greeting, and he grunted a low  _ morning, _ before getting lost in his thoughts again.

Pamela Barnes paced the room, face pale. “He’s panicking,” she said, a slight raise to her eyebrows the only sign she’d noticed Castiel and Dean arriving. “He thinks we’re close to him, and he’s trying to get rid of as many of us as he can.”

Castiel pulled a chair back, its legs scratching the floor, and dropped to sit there. He placed his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers in front of his face. “He’s committed three murders in less than a week. Before he started targeting agents it could be months before he went after a new victim.”

“Three murders plus the attempt on us two nights ago,” Dean added claiming his own seat next to him.

Pamela paused, turned around and scanned the cluster of information they had up on the board and the walls. “He had to follow his other victims,” she gestured at the first set of pictures, twisting her torso to face them. “Probably gather evidence for their crimes, learn their routines. With us it’s different.”

Waving a hand absently, Dean said, “Because we’re not criminals? Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. The question is, how does he find us so quickly? He must’ve caught Hawkins a couple hours after trying to put a bullet through Novak’s head, at the latest.”

“He knows us,” Benny said, glancing up from the photos in his hands. “He knows we’re looking for him.”

Across the table, Bass’ hand curled in a fist. “He  _ is _ one of us.”

Silence followed his words as everyone in the room turned to gape at him. 

Dean stole a glance at Castiel, and found him staring back, his gaze unwavering from Dean. The set of his shoulder and the tenseness of his jaw were easy to read. Bass’ accusation was a thought that had occurred to both of them in the past, and they had even talked about it between the two of them, but saying it out loud, in front of everyone, made the threat more solid, like something they could touch with their fingers if they reached for it.

The killer was someone who was working on the case, or had access to the files. Maybe even had access to the crime scene.

“I don't know if he’s with the FBI or the police or a fucking paramedic,” Bass continued, eyes still lowered, “But he knows how we work, he knows our routine, and he didn't have to spend as much time stalking us as the other victims. The answer is obvious.”

“Our routines are straightforward,” Pamela said slowly. “For someone doing a similar job, even predictable. We have to stick to our original profile, it’s still too early to narrow down the pool of suspects.”

Bass lifted his head, zeroing in on her. “He’s going to kill us all because you’re scared to point fingers.”

“I’m not scared to point fingers. I just don’t want to put all of our resources into a wild goose chase, spooking our co-workers and allies without something more concrete than a hunch,” she shot back.

A bitter laugh escaped Bass’ lips. “It’s not a hunch, it’s a fact. A fact you’re either too naive or too cowardly to acknowledge.”

“Fine,” Pamela snapped. “Let’s drop everything and start hunting down every officer, agent or coroner who’s ever set foot in one of our crime scenes. Here, I volunteer to go first. The night of Annie’s murder I was sleeping in my hotel, alone. Where were you?”

A muscle jumped in Bass jaw. “Drop everything,” he scoffed. “Like we have so much evidence we don’t know what to do with it all.” 

“We have a lot of work to do, actually.” Benny stepped in, voice even and professional. “Autopsy results should be in later today, and I’ve begun making a list of possible witnesses, police officers that were at the scene that we need to take statements from, crime scene sketches that need to be done. Hawkins’ GPS was destroyed, but some of the tech guys still want to take a look at it.”

The tension in the room was taut enough to snap at any moment, but Benny’s intervention pulled everyone’s focus back to the case. Bass’ shoulders slumped with defeat. Dean had to give it to Benny, the man knew how to dissolve a fight without much fuss. 

Castiel was frowning at Dean’s old partner, deep in thought, but before he could reach a conclusion, Pamela distracted him. “I’ll take the witnesses,” she said, pressing circles into her temples.

“I’ll come with you,” Bass volunteered. Despite the heated discussion only mere seconds ago, Pamela seemed thankful to have help. The list Benny passed over took up a whole page. Pamela and Bass would have their hands full for the next several hours, if not days.

With that settled, Benny turned expectantly to him. There weren’t exactly many tasks left for Dean to pick from, but he knew which one he liked less. It was the one Castiel immediately volunteered to do.

“Winchester and I will head down to the police station.” He took the list of the police officers that had been at the crime scene, scanned it briefly, then tucked it into his pocket. Dean figured there wasn’t much point in complaining. It was just going to be a repeat performance of two days ago, and speaking with cops was bound to be easier than civilians who droned on and on and on. Probably.

Tapping the stack of papers on the table to straighten them, Benny nodded his approval. “I’ll talk with the evidence technicians,” he said. “I'll have everything ready for when you guys get back.”

“I don't know if we'll be back today,” Dean cut in, kicking Castiel under the table. “We want to take a look around the neighborhood again.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean’s lie but got the hint and kept his mouth shut. 

Benny searched Dean’s face. “Be careful, brother.”

Dean grinned. “I'm always careful.”

***

The woman at the police station’s front desk was more than happy to be of help, and kindly asked them to wait while she phoned the homicide detective that had been sent for the investigation. Checking the list they’d be given for his name was useless. Both Castiel and Dean already knew very well who that detective was.

Irritation tingled down Dean’s fingertips even before Crowley strolled in, a smug expression written all over his face. He stood with his hands pushed into his pockets. “Look what the cat dragged in. Inspector Gadget and his lap dog.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, clearly not getting his reference, and Dean took it upon himself to answer. “I'm seriously tired of seeing your ugly mug, Crowley.”

“And yet here you are. Last time I checked this is my workplace—” he made a show of checking his surroundings, “—and you two have no business being here.”

“We’re here to take statements from you and any other officer that was at the crime scene. I suggest you cooperate,” Castiel said, voice betraying no hint of emotion. If Dean hadn’t spent the last two days constantly with him he’d have thought Castiel was completely indifferent to Crowley. But the slight tightness to his mouth was an easy giveaway. His patience was running thin with the detective, too. And, damn, he looked good with that miniscule frown.

“Or what?” Crowley challenged. He jerked his chin towards Dean. “Your mutt over there barks at me?”

“Oh, trust me. I bite harder than I bark.” 

“No reason to get aggressive,” Crowley said, distractedly checking his sleeve for any signs of dust. “We can all play nice together. I'll even prepare an interrogation room for you two to use. How does that sound?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a surprised look. This was easier than they’d expected. 

“Thank you,” Castiel muttered after a beat.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Crowley. “So polite. Did you hit your head or something? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Crowley ignored the three fingers Dean pushed in his face. “I had an epiphany since the last time we saw each other.”

“You mean an arrest warrant? Because I'm sure I'll still manage to scrounge up one of those if you're too annoying,” Dean mocked, elbowing Castiel at the side. Instead of laughing, Castiel grunted, annoyed. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, giving him a small embarrassed smile. Castiel was not a fan of elbowing: noted.

“Ah, he’s a comedian. Lucky you,” Crowley said to Castiel, rolling his eyes. “But no. I figured you guys need all the help you can get, is all. The way I see it, at this rate you two might be dead before sunrise tomorrow.”

Dean scowled, but a hand on his elbow stopped him from saying anything else. Castiel took over again, all serious-faced and no-nonsense attitude, and Dean’s stomach fluttered at the display of authority.

Apparently his alone time in the shower hadn’t quite done the trick.

The statements were easy enough to take. The officers that had been at the crime scene could be counted on one hand, and even Crowley answered all their questions with minimal complaining and no sarcastic comments. For the rest of the police officers who’d just worked outside of the building, Dean and Castiel didn’t have a lot of questions to ask, mainly about Hawkins’ car and the area it was found in.  They took notes of everything, and they asked everyone to write and sign a statement, which they collected along with any pictures they’d taken or reports, and they were done by midday.  Quick and easy. Just the way Dean liked interviews. Now if he hadn’t been forced to spend so much time in a room with Crowley, his day would have been complaint-free for the most part.

“Can you believe this guy?” Dean asked later, when they were back in the car, his mind still stuck on the comment Crowley had made about them getting offed. “This is what? Third time he threatens us?”

Castiel looked up from the files he was leafing through. He sighed. “He's just a pissed off detective who sulks because we took his case. Don't feed into his aggression.”

“He threatens me again, I put a bullet in his thigh,” Dean promised, habitually checking his surroundings through the mirrors.

“Great, and then you go to jail,” Castiel said dryly, twisting to place the files in the back seat and free his hands and lap. “At least I'll have some peace and quiet that way.”

Dean shot him a side glance and smirked. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“It might surprise you, but I lasted thirty-eight years without you.” Castiel sounded more amused than annoyed, and the lines of his face were soft. 

“Are you as shocked as I am?” Dean said without missing a beat. 

Castiel smoothed his tie down, averting his face, probably to hide his own smile. “You know, Winchester, despite what you think, you’re not funny. Or cute.”

“What are you talking about? I’m hilarious. People love me.”

“Yeah, like you don’t make a point of being a pain in the ass.”

Bringing up Castiel’s relationship status last night had been a mistake. Castiel had instantly withdrawn and what little easy camaraderie they’d found had dissolved, tension and awkwardness carrying into this morning. Castiel was relaxed now though, and Dean was happy to bask in their light teasing and bantering.

“Only when it comes to you, babe,” he chuckled.

Castiel poked him between the ribs, making him jerk away with a surprised yelp. Castiel looked pretty satisfied with himself. “Don’t call me that. It’s not funny.”

“Come on, you secretly love it.”

They stared at each other, and this time Castiel couldn’t stop himself. His eyes crinkled at the corners, as a smile lit up his face.

“Yes, I can’t get enough of it, and if we ever solve this case I don’t know how I’ll survive without you. Happy?” he pretended to grumble.

“Extremely.” Dean turned his attention back to the road. He checked his mirrors. There was warmth spreading inside him, and a pleasant buzz under his skin. “Lunch first, work later?” he asked.

“Sure, whatever works for you.” Castiel leaned his forehead against the window. Then, like the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “Do you really want to go back and check the neighborhood around the crime scene?”

Dean caught Castiel’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I meant more like what’s under the neighbourhood. Know what I mean?” 

“The tunnels?” Castiel guessed.

Dean’s eyes flew from wing mirror to wing mirror to the rear-view one. Nothing to worry about. The people around them drove carefully and kept their distance. He caught a silver flash, somewhere further back behind them.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to ignore the weight that was slowly settling in his chest.

There was a silver Audi behind them.

“Charlie hasn’t sent me the plans yet,” Castiel said, oblivious to Dean’s change in the mood.

Dean forced himself to focus back on their conversation. Tunnels, investigation, Castiel. “She might send them next week, we can’t wait that long,” he pointed out.

“At least give her a couple of days—”

Dean checked the mirror again, wishing he’d made a mistake before. But no, the car was still there, three cars back. He took a right turn, eyes jumping between the road and the mirror.

“—irresponsible and dangerous—” Castiel continued, and Dean realised he’d missed half of the stuff he was saying.

Then the silver Audi appeared again, taking the same turn as them, but keeping a careful distance. 

“—a little patience—”

Dean felt the familiar chills that accompanied a rush of adrenaline. “Shut up for a second,” he said. 

Castiel turned to him confused.

“I think there’s a car following us,” he explained quickly.

Castiel twisted around, eyes narrowing. “Which one?” All hints of humor had disappeared from his voice. 

“Silver Audi. Should be the third car behind us. It’s kept a steady distance for a while now.”

“Can you lose it?” Castiel asked immediately, without doubting Dean’s words even for a second.

“Probably. Can you see the plates? Or the driver?” A car following them when somebody was trying to kill them might have been a coincidence, but a car Dean had seen outside of their hotel the same night as the attempted murder was not. 

Castiel’s lips thinned and he squinted his eyes. He shook his head. “No, he’s too far back.”

Dean hit the wheel with his fist. “Great. Hold on.”

This part of New York wasn’t one he was terribly familiar with, but Dean took a sharp right turn into a road with less traffic. He hoped his sense of direction would be enough. Castiel placed a hand on the dashboard to keep his balance.

The silver Audi took the same turn as them, still back enough that Dean couldn’t make out the plates. He took another turn. Then another. He increased their speed, grazing their right wing mirror as he passed by some parked cars. The silver Audi was still behind them.

“Dean,” Castiel gritted out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean murmured. 

The traffic light right in front of them turned yellow, and Dean pressed his foot on the accelerator. Castiel slammed back against his seat with a muffled sound, and the traffic light turned red, and Dean still passed, a cacophony of horns and curses and yelling rising up from all the drivers that he cut off, but the silver Audi didn’t follow them. It stopped at the traffic light.

Dean took the next left turn he could find, and instead of heading to a diner like he was planning, he headed back to their hotel.

“I’m thinking we keep our heads down for a while,” he said.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

***

They parked the car about a block away from the hotel, just to be on the safe side, and Dean made sure to disable the GPS. Castiel looked mildly impressed with him as Dean was bent in half, fumbling through wires. “You’re good with your hands,” he said.

Dean grinned up at him with a wink. “So I’ve been told.”

He watched as realization spread across Castiel’s features, then a blush blossomed all over his cheeks and ears. Dean felt butterflies fluttering inside his stomach. He dropped his eyes. 

“I swear you’re worse than a child,” Castiel complained, fingering his collar, hands moving to loosen his tie.

“Come on, you practically served that up on a plate for me,” Dean argued, clenching his jaw in an effort to calm the stirring inside him. He saw the wire he was looking for, and traced his fingers to the end of it. With a victorious  _ aha, _ he removed the battery. He unfolded himself and showed it to Castiel, held between thumb and finger.

Castiel squinted at it, pursing his lips. “We should have done that sooner.”

Dean tossed the battery in the air, and caught it again. “Better late than never. Come on, let’s go.”

The hotel was as empty as always, with the exception of the man at the front desk—his head buried in his phone again. It soothed Dean’s anxious mind to know that nobody was watching them. It made him feel safer.

Since neither of the two had a better idea, Dean ordered a couple of pizzas again. They settled on Dean’s bed, side by side, ties and jackets discarded, collars unbuttoned. The TV was turned on, volume low enough to serve as background noise while they ate their food. 

“I don’t think we should go back to the office.” Castiel frowned down at the slice he was holding. “At least for a couple of days.”

Dean stopped eating, and he muted the TV. “Yeah, I was actually thinking the same thing. If the guy found us at the police station he’ll definitely know to wait at the office.” 

Castiel dropped his hands, resting his head against the headboard. “Do you think we should call this in?

Wincing, Dean said, “I mean, do you want to? Bass wasn’t wrong today, we have to be extra careful. There's nobody we can trust, not really. But hey, at least now you have a reason to be a distrusting jackass. You're officially not cray cray.” He patted Castiel on the shoulder, bringing his slice of pizza up in a parody of a toast.

“I’d rather be ‘cray cray’ than be the next target of a serial killer,” Castiel sighed, doing actual air quotes with his fingers, the dork.

“When life gives you lemons…” Dean trailed off, bumping his shoulder against Castiel’s. 

Castiel turned to face him, and their faces were only inches apart. Dean sucked a breath in. “I'm not particularly fond of lemonade,” Castiel murmured, staring at Dean under half-open lids. 

Dean swallowed around the dryness in his throat and pulled back. “Shucks…” He kept his eyes fixed on the TV, where the news anchor’s lips were moving without any sound reaching Castiel and Dean. He cleared his throat. “So what do we do now? I mean other than wait for evidence to drop out of the sky.”

“I—” Castiel started. His phone vibrated on the side table, cutting him off. He sat up with a jerk and fumbled with it. Then his shoulders sagged, and he exhaled. “It’s Charlie,” he told Dean before answering.

Dean moved to sit next to him, and tilted his head to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Cyber Charlie?” he mouthed, and Castiel nodded distracted, all his attention to the phone call.

Dean sat back. “Damn. And yet when I ask for Dr. Sexy the universe ignores me.”

Castiel shot him a warning glare, bringing a finger in front of his lips. Dean mimed zipping his mouth.

“Yeah… yeah. No, Charlie, I know. I will. Yes, thank you very much.” Castiel ended the call and dropped the phone back on the table. He reached for his laptop. “She sent us the plans.”

Dean pushed the boxes out of the way and patted the space next to him. They pressed close together, impatiently waiting for the email Charlie had sent to load. Dean ignored the way his skin burned where he was touching Castiel.

The map showed an extensive network of tunnels, running under the biggest part of the city. Like they’d theorized, most of it was old subway lines that had been abandoned and extensive sewers that were rarely used anymore in favor of newer and safer ones. Since most of the subway lines on the map were far from the area their unsub had been active lately, they discarded that part of the map, focusing instead on a cluster of steam pipe systems that seemed to match perfectly with the tunnel they’d found.

They traced the lines on the screen, finding the entrances from the streets and the buildings. The building Annie Hawkins had been found in was a match, and so was one of the buildings in the same block as the first murder scene they’d visited. 

“Holy shit,” Dean exclaimed, eyes wide. “We have to check it out.” He jumped up and grabbed his jacket. Finally, solid evidence, a trail to follow. Something he was good at. His pulse picked up at the prospect of getting closer to solving this godforsaken case.

From the bed, Castiel turned to him, blinking. “What, now?”

Dean paused with only one hand through the sleeve of his jacket. “Do you want to wait for the cavalry?” he asked after a beat.

Castiel placed the laptop carefully on the bed next to him. “It’s late,” he said. “It’s too dangerous to go down there now.”

Dean couldn’t believe his ears. “What? No, it’s not. Come on, we have a map, it’s not like we can get lost.”

Castiel’s mouth tightened. He pushed himself up so he could look Dean in the eye. “It’s like a maze down there,” he said. “Even with a map, we’d be putting ourselves in too great a danger. The killer could be down there, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean stared at him. And he stared a little more.

Castiel rubbed a hand over his eyes, like Dean was the irrational one here, instead of Castiel. Yeah, how dare Dean think they’d finally make their move. And when the ball was finally in their court? Oh, no, that’d be just wacky.

“A killer with a gun,” Castiel said again, with more emphasis to his words this time.

Dean squinted at him. “And we have two guns between us. And at least one of us is a badass fighter.”

Castiel ignored the jab. “It’s a bad idea.” 

Dean shook his head, feeling his body tense. He took his jacket off again and threw it on the bed. “Okay. So what would you have us do, Novak? Take a nap? Have a pillow fight? Braid each other’s hair?” 

Castiel gestured at his laptop. “I've been thinking we should look for cases we might have missed.”

“What, like research?”

“It's been bothering me from the beginning. All the murders of the victims we've labeled as criminals were all exactly the same. From murder weapon, to posing the body, to moving them to a secondary location. There is no—no evolution.” 

Dean took a deep, steadying breath. “Wouldn't you call killing federal agents evolution?”

“He's been very consistent from the start. He doesn't experiment, he doesn’t change anything,” Castiel argued.

“So dude knows what he likes.” Dean shook his head. He couldn’t believe they were having this argument. He couldn’t believe Castiel would bump heads with him even now.

But Castiel’s eyes lit up at Dean’s words. “Exactly. Nobody knows what they like from the start. You have to try different things to see what fits.” 

Dean placed his hands on his waist, trying really hard to see Castiel’s point. “So you're saying there must be earlier victims that we didn't connect with him.”

“And maybe there's something in one of those case files that could help us catch him,” Castiel added.

“It’s a stretch.” It was more than a stretch. Benny and the team had already done similar research, Dean was sure. Though Castiel seemed pretty sure of himself, and maybe having somebody with his psychology-or-whatever experience might help them catch something they’d missed.

“But it’s possible,” Castiel pressed, a hand curling into a fist. He wasn’t going to drop this, not until he’d gotten his way.

Well, Dean wasn’t one to give in easily either. “We only have your laptop, though. How about you do the research, and I go to the tunnels?”

“Absolutely not,” Castiel answered immediately. He moved closer, eyes wide and pleading. “We can’t be separated, we—Dean, please.”

Dean groaned. Stubborn motherfucker. “Okay, fine. Let’s do the research first.”

Castiel’s posture relaxed immediately, tension slipping away from his shoulders and face. “I’ll search for the cases, you can keep notes.” He turned around, kneeled by his trenchcoat, searching through his pockets until he found his stupid tiny notebook and even stupider pencil-stub. He shoved them into Dean’s hands.

Dean looked down at them. “What am I even supposed to write in this thing? My name alone would take up a whole page.”

“So make smaller letters.”

Castiel’s research was painfully slow and boring. Just like Dean had expected. They started looking into unsolved murders that had happened up to a year before the first victim of the tri-state murderer had appeared, but that didn’t yield any results. So Castiel expanded his research to include missing persons cases as well, but their luck wasn’t any better. They’d managed to round up a few of them where the victims were on the wrong side of the law, but that was where all similarities ended. Dean wasn’t even doing anything, because there were no notes to take.

Since they’d claimed his bed as their unofficial work center—because Dean would rather be lying down watching tv while he pretended to be useful, and Castiel didn’t mind supporting his work laptop on his legs, and Dean didn’t have anything better to do other than steal glances at Castiel’s fingers typing away, or the small crease line between his brows as he concentrated, or his lips pursing together in thought—it was no surprise when Dean nodded off.

He was jerked awake several hours later, sore all over from the awkward angle he’d spent the last few hours curled in but surprisingly well rested. He blinked up at Castiel and it took him a few lethargic spins of his brain to realize two very important things: One, there was light shining in through the curtains, so Dean had slept through the night, and two, judging from the offensive drool mark he’d left on Castiel’s sleeve, he’d slept leaning against his arm. 

Dean flinched away. “Ah, shit. Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Castiel ignored his words, tugging him back closer instead to point at his screen. “Check this out. I had to look further back than what we’d originally theorized. I was lucky enough that I didn’t have to look through murder cases outside of New York, though.” He scrolled up, where the picture of a hollow-eyed woman stared back at Dean under dirty bangs.

“ I found this case,” Castiel continued. “The victim was a twenty seven year old woman, heroin user, known to police for minor crimes. Breaking and entering, theft, that kind of stuff.” 

Dean rubbed the sleep out of his eyes—unnecessary, because the shock of waking up pressed to Castiel’s side had done the trick—and turned the laptop towards himself to skim through the file. “Rose Beaker. What about her?”

Castiel shooed his hand away from the mouse pad, then found the part he was looking for and highlighted it. “Whoever killed her left her body right outside their door for her boyfriend to find.” 

“Sounds creepy,” Dean admitted, “but not our kind of creepy.”

“I just feel like there’s a connection,” Castiel said. 

Dean sighed. “Let me take a look.”

Throat slashed, body moved from primary murder scene, no evidence, no DNA recovered, no suspects. It was a stretch. A lot of the details didn’t fit with their profile, but Dean was willing to look into that a bit more. Not that there was much information to look into to begin with. A woman like her, nobody had bothered to dig deeper. 

“That was… three years ago. Were you in NY back then?” Castiel asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Dean looked away from the screen, trying to count in his head. Benny’s accident had been almost four years ago, so: “No, I’d already moved to DC by then. I was UC, probably. Let me just…” He scrolled further up, finding the exact date the murder had taken place. “November. Yep, UC.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Huh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“If you’d been here when it happened, maybe you’d remember something more,” Castiel explained, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He’d probably stayed up all night going through file after file after file. Dean felt kind of sorry for him, but he had to give it to Castiel: his stubbornness knew no bounds.

“This is the first I’ve heard of this.” He scrolled back down where he’d left off, then his eyes fell on the name of the officers involved with the case. “Oh, wait. Check this out.”

Castiel inched closer, now firmly pressed to Dean from knee to hip to shoulder. “What?”

Dean resolutely ignored the way his heart picked up at their proximity. He highlighted two words on the screen. “Fergus Crowley was the detective in charge of the investigation.”

Castiel frowned. “ Yeah, I saw it.” 

“Dude. You were yapping on and on about hunches and feelings just a second ago, and the fact that Crowley was involved with the case didn’t trigger your spidey sense?” Dean asked, incredulous.

“Spidey sense?” 

“It’s that tingling feeling when danger—" Dean gestured around his head, trying to explain the concept of spidey sense, but Castiel’s eyes only narrowed further in confusion. "You know what, never mind. It’s a comic book thing.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. Then, finally, “You read comics?”

“I watched the movie,” Dean shot back immediately, a blush quickly rising up his jaw. “Is that a problem?”

Castiel rubbed his jaw, clearly at a loss for words. At the end he settled for, “No, why would it be a problem?” 

Dean ignored the twisting feeling inside him, and pushed down the knee jerk reaction of becoming an asshole. He turned his attention back to the case. “So, Crowley.” 

If Castiel noticed the change in topic, he didn’t comment. “It could be a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Castiel asked, pulling back a bit to be able to look at Dean. “We can’t order an arrest warrant on… this. This is nothing.”

Dean tapped his fingers against his knee. “We should at least warn the others.”

“About what? You don’t know it’s Crowley.”

“You don’t know it’s not.”

“We can’t just—”

“Dammit, Cas, do you even hear yourself?” Dean cut him off, the name slipping from his tongue before he’d even realized it was there. Instead of acknowledging his mistake, Dean pressed on. “You don’t want us to tell anyone about the tunnels, then you don’t want us looking into them anymore—”

“That’s not what I said, I only—” Castiel started to protest.

“—and when we finally have a possible lead, you still don’t want to follow through with that? What do you want me to do then, huh?”

Castiel raised a hand in an effort to keep Dean calm. “I know I’m upsetting you. But please. There’s—they don’t fit. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“How about with words? I’m tired of tiptoeing around you,” Dean said, the beginning of a headache pressing behind his eyelids.

Castiel opened and closed his mouth uselessly a couple of times. “I just feel… I don’t know. There’s something that doesn’t make sense about this case. I’ve been feeling like we’re missing something. From the beginning, not just now. There’s something weird about this case, and I can’t put my finger on it. Just give me time.”

There was desperation in his voice. Castiel needed Dean to trust him, but Dean needed Castiel to do the same. Wasn’t he the one saying,  _ you gotta talk to me,  _ and,  _ I have to know I can trust you,  _ and all that bullshit? Dean stared at him, trying to decide what to do. 

Castiel stared back, chewing on his lower lip. 

“Time?  Jesus Christ, fine. But if there’s another victim while we’re sitting on our asses, it’s on you.”

Castiel closed his eyes. “Thank you.” 

Dean passed the laptop back and stood up, twisting his torso trying to stretch his sore muscles. “Can I at least get out of here to grab us something to eat?”

“Out where?” Castiel asked, poorly hidden anxiety darkening his face again. 

“Bakery a couple of blocks away. I’ll take the car. I’ll be back before you know it,” Dean assured him, his mind stuck on Castiel’s lips around his name and how worried he’d looked the last few days. Dean agreed that being separated was a bad idea, but this was taking it to the extreme. And yet here he was, bending to Castiel’s will once again. If Bobby could see him, he’d call him an idjit for going soft.

Castiel swallowed, then looked away. “Be careful.”

Dean was proud to return to the hotel in a little less than fifteen minutes, and without having met any crazy serial killers while he was out there. And he had brought coffee as a bonus, too. 

“Hey,” Castiel greeted him. He looked calmer now. “I asked Charlie if she could pull Crowley’s file for me. I thought we could look through the other cases he’s worked on, see if anything else fits the profile.”

Dean crossed the room and placed the two cups and the box of muffins on the desk. He hoped Castiel liked chocolate. “Good thinking. Here, got your coffee. You drink it black right?”

Castiel paused mid-typing. He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I do. How do you know?”

“I remember from the first day,” Dean said, shrugging out of his jacket and shoulder holster—which he’d put on because he might have rolled his eyes at Castiel but he wasn’t about to walk out there without a gun. “When we went on a coffee run.”

“Huh. I’m surprised you remember anything other than the girl behind the counter,” Castiel admitted.

Dean grinned from ear to ear. “I’m surprised you remember her at all.”

“She was pretty,” Castiel said, searching Dean’s face.

“Was she?”Dean asked, wandering to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Castiel trailed after him. He leaned against the doorframe. “She gave you her number.”

Grabbing one of the white towels, Dean dried his hands. He looked at Castiel through the mirror. “Do I look like I have time to go on dates?” 

Castiel didn’t answer, but his eyes on Dean were heavy with… something. Dean didn’t feel like examining that too closely. He’d rather sweep everything under the rug and pretend everything was going according to plan. That there was no plan when it came to Castiel was an obvious problem to his logic, but one that was again easily ignored.

He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m gonna take a shower,” he said, bowing his head. “I feel so gross. You let me sleep in my clothes last night, you asshole.”

“At least you were sleeping,” Castiel said, exhaustion written all over his face.

“Yeah, whatever. You get some sleep. I’ll take over research after I’m done.”

“You brought me coffee,” Castiel said, but his protests were half-hearted at best. He wasn’t gonna manage to stay awake much longer, and they both knew it.

“Will it stop you?” Dean asked, turning to grab the door.

“Probably not,” Castiel admitted, and Dean pushed the door closed with a loud screech. 

Since Castiel was still awake when Dean emerged from his shower—no jerking off to images of his half-naked partner this time because last time he’d tried it hadn’t done him much good—Dean sent him to take a shower himself. A good call, if Dean could judge from the way Castiel collapsed to the bed completely relaxed and half-asleep already after it. 

The curtains in their room were permanently closed—they didn’t want a repeat performance of their last hotel—but Dean didn’t mind the darkness inside the room, especially if it meant that Castiel slept easier. However, he suspected Castiel wouldn’t have trouble sleeping even with the lights on. Dean envied him for that. He hadn’t slept peacefully since he’d been in high school. Though last night came pretty close.

He moved the laptop to the desk, noting Castiel’s tiny notebook there with the password written in a new page, and dove right into work. Like Castiel, he couldn’t find any other cases that matched what they were looking for, but with the amount of missing people that had never been found, Dean couldn’t be sure that one of them wasn’t a victim of their killer. 

With coffee and half a dozen muffins as his fuel, Dean spent the next few hours hunched over the computer. When he got bored of blindly going through cases, he opened up a new window and browsed the internet for a little while. Absently, he checked the time, only to realize that he’d worked well into the evening. A look around the now darker room confirmed that. 

Dean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. Enough research for one day, he decided. He found his phone and texted Bobby with a quick update that consisted of nothing more than: _ still working, nothing new to report _ .

He glanced back at Castiel, peacefully snoring into his pillow. He was probably going to wake up soon, but Dean didn’t want to disturb him just yet. Phone in hand and immensely thankful that the room’s door didn’t make nearly as much noise as the bathroom one, he stepped out of the room. He leaned against the wall of the hallway, found his brother’s number and pressed call.

He’d talked with Sam just last night, but it was always good to hear his voice. It was good to hear about Sammy living a normal life with Eileen and to find out the newest trouble their dog had gotten himself into. It helped him stay grounded. 

Sam was telling him he ought to call Adam and Kate soon, because they were worried, too, when Dean felt his phone vibrate in his ear.

“Hey, I gotta go. Benny’s calling me,” Dean said after he’d checked the name on his screen. 

“Be careful out there, Dean,” Sam said for the umpteenth time, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on, don’t start this shit with me. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam replied.

“Bitch.”

Dean smiled as he ended the call. Then he pressed Benny’s name from the missed calls list. This conversation was not going to be as lighthearted or carefree.

“Hey, Benny. What's up”

“Dean, finally,” Benny exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

Dean slid down to crouch by their hotel room. Castiel was sleeping, he would never know he’d talked to Benny or what they’d said. And yet Dean didn’t have it in him to betray his trust. “Here and there. Checking a few leads.”

Benny hummed on the other end of the line. “Anything promising?”

Dean made a non-committal sound. He didn’t like lying to Benny, but this was a special case, and he needed to make an exception. “No. Just another dead end.”

“Damn. The way this investigation is going we might actually never catch this guy,” Benny said, voice solemn. A tapping noise reached Dean, like Benny was typing something on a keyboard. “You guys don’t know since you didn’t show up today, but the ballistics report came in. For the bullets in Day and Delacruz’s case. And we also have a basic timeline for Annie’s last hours. Want me to send them?”

“Yeah, why don’t you just email them to C—Novak?” Dean caught himself at the last moment. It was one thing slipping in front of Castiel, and something else entirely to do it in front of Benny. Benny knew him better than anyone else, save for his own family, and he’d read through Dean in a minute if he got even a whiff of Dean’s feelings. Not that there were any feelings to address. None at all. Just some pent up tension.

“Will do,” Benny said, and the typing intensified. “Anything else to report?”

“Just—” Dean bit his lip. This was not betraying Castiel’s trust, he was only going to give Benny a little warning, no details. “Just be careful, okay? With the killer still on the loose who knows which one of us is the next target?”

“And what about you, brother?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you more.” 

Silence followed his words. Then Benny sighed. “Do you trust Novak?” 

“You and him are the only two I trust right now,” Dean admitted in a low voice. He genuinely was sorry for lying to Benny, but he didn’t have another choice in this situation. 

“And yet you won’t tell me where you are,” Benny accused, and the hurt in his voice almost made Dean cave in.

He didn’t. “Gotta play it safe.”

The door next to him swung open, almost knocking him to the side. Castiel came running out, looking around him panicked. His eyes landed on Dean, and he froze.

“Ah… Benny? I gotta go,” Dean said, and he closed his phone before any protests could stop him.

“Dean. You’re here,” Castiel breathed out in relief.

Dean put a hand on the wall for support and pushed himself upright again, knees popping. “Yeah, what happened?”

Castiel’s face immediately hardened, mouth twisting. “What happened? I thought you were gone. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

An incredulous laugh escaped Dean’s lips. “I was just outside our room.”

“But I didn’t know,” Castiel insisted, taking a step closer, shoulders tense. 

And that was it. Dean couldn’t take this any longer. “So now I have to ask permission before I step out of the room? What if I wanted to get some fresh air, huh?” he hissed, stepping into Castiel’s space without a warning. Castiel flinched, and that was all Dean needed. He grabbed him from the elbow, spun him around and pushed him back into the room. Yes, the hotel was mostly empty but there was no reason to pick a fight out in the open where everyone could hear and see them.

He’d had enough of all the control and the annoying precautions they had to take all the time and fucking enough with Castiel getting his way.

Castiel stumbled back, and Dean followed him inside, slamming the door closed behind them. He didn’t give him any time to recover.

“What if I wanted to go for a drink? Just for an hour, just to clear my head?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, then he was right in front of Dean again, eyes hard. “And what if the killer caught you?” he demanded, chin held high. “What if he caught you and killed you, and I didn’t even know where you were?”

Dean planted his forearm against Castiel’s chest, pushing against hard muscles to give himself some space. Castiel was everywhere, at all times, and Dean couldn’t handle it any longer, especially not with the way Castiel’s face was flushed with anger, mouth flat. “Enough. I can’t do this. I can’t spend all this time cooped up in this room with you. I can’t. I need space, I—” 

“A killer is after you, Dean. You think I like being with you twenty-four-seven? You think I don’t need my space?” Castiel asked, taking another step forward. They were too close, and Dean had been climbing the walls for three days already, and Cas wouldn’t shut up. “You think I like fighting and—”

Dean grabbed Castiel by the front of his shirt and pulled him in, crushing their mouths together. Castiel made a surprised noise against Dean’s lips, but then his hands were on Dean, pulling, clutching, gripping.

Their first kiss felt like an argument, with biting and teeth clicking and noses bumping together. Castiel pulled back—long enough to suck in a breath and for Dean’s blood to run cold with panic—and then he dove right back in, hands coming up to cup behind Dean’s neck and tug him lower. Hand still fisted at the front of Castiel’s t shirt, Dean tilted his head, and Castiel easily let him in, tongues gliding together with heat and purpose now. They shuffled backwards, until Castiel’s knees hit the mattress and Dean pushed him down, quickly following to straddle his hips. They were kissing again, clothes quickly shoved to the side, and Dean pressed down, feeling Castiel’s erection through the soft cotton of his sleep pants. 

He exhaled roughly, his whole body aching with heat and need, and Castiel took the opportunity to dip his head and trace his tongue along the edge of his jaw, teeth grazing his pulse point, kisses trailing down to his sternum. 

Dean gasped when a hand found its way under his shirt, thumb rubbing over his nipple. Castiel smiled against his skin. With the flat of his palm on his chest, Dean pushed him, until he was flat on his back, and God, he was a sight to behold—dark tousled hair, lips swollen and moist from kissing, eyes blown. 

He grinded down on Castiel, watching as the man closed his eyes, mouth falling open. “Gee, Novak. Is that a gun in your pants or are you excited to see me?” he asked, rolling his hips again, cocks rubbing together through the few layers separating them. 

Castiel glared at him, but his hips jerked up, chasing the friction. “Trust me, Winchester. You don’t want me bringing my gun into this,” he growled, voice gravelly and husky.

A shiver run down Dean’s spine. He grinned at Castiel, fully aware of how cocky and insufferably he could be. “Lucky you, handling guns is my specialty.” And to prove his point, he scooped back a little and shoved a hand unceremoniously into Castiel’s pants, pushing his underwear out of the way. His hand wrapped around his cock and he squeezed, drawing a groan out of Castiel.

All clothes were shed quickly after that, and Dean jerked Castiel slowly, as Castiel’s hands clutched at Dean, fingers pressing into his skin. Dean’s hand brushed over an ugly scar, low on Castiel’s belly, the thought that a wound like that should have killed him half-forming in the back of his mind, but everything was covered by a blanket of urgency and want and blind-hot lust. It didn’t even matter anymore. Afghanistan should have killed Dean long ago, but he was here, alive and breathing, and Castiel was here, willing and desperate.

He released Castiel’s dick, earning him a whine that he drowned out with a kiss, and his fingers moved lower to rub over Castiel’s hole. Castiel stiffened for a second, but then he pressed his mouth more urgently against Dean, a desperate sound escaping him.

“God, Cas. I want—Can I?” Dean breathed out between kisses, finger careful as it circled around the tight ring of muscle. His whole body was vibrating with need, and he was painfully hard against Castiel’s thigh.

He only waited long enough for Castiel to nod once, and Dean was already on his feet, moving towards the bathroom. He found his lube and pack of condoms in his toiletry pack, and soon he was pushing a finger inside Castiel, then two, and then three, and finally, finally, Castiel rolled over to support himself on elbows and knees, ass high, and Dean pushed inside. 

A broken “Fuck,” was torn out of his throat, raw and desperate. He forced himself to keep still, a hand moving to Castiel’s hip to rub comforting circles into the skin.

“Jesus—Just hurry up and fuck me, Dean,” Castiel groaned, pushing back against the stretch of Dean inside him.

Annoyance flared inside Dean. Castiel was still bossy and demanding even with Dean’s dick up his ass. Well, if he wanted Dean to fuck him, Dean was going to give him exactly that. He pushed in hard, drawing a gasp out of Castiel, then he pulled out and slammed right back in, hard enough to make Castiel’s elbows give in underneath him. Dean changed his angle to keep Castiel’s face pressed into the mattress, picking up the pace.

Curses and moans filled the room, and Castiel was pushing his ass back to meet Dean at every thrust. Dean's thighs were burning, trembling. It was so warm and tight and perfect inside him that Dean couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted to. He pushed Castiel down, his grip turning white-knuckled on his hips, fingers pressing bruises into the soft skin, and at this pace Dean was going to fuck Castiel through the mattress. Heat rushed through his veins, something pulling tight at the end of his spine, and Dean reached down and grabbed Castiel’s cock. He jerked him hard and fast, watching as Castiel moved his hips desperately to fuck himself between Dean’s dick and his fist, his rhythm faltering, curses and a soft  _ yeah, god, yeah,  _ falling out of his mouth. And then, with a startled cry, Castiel came, spilling his semen all over the sheet underneath him and Dean’s fingers.

Dean planted a hand next to his head and started fucking him harder, chasing his own release, the pull inside him tighter and tighter, taut enough to snap and then, with two final thrusts and a spent groan from Castiel, Dean came.

They collapsed on the mattress in an undignified pile, both breathing hard. Castiel’s skin was glistening with sweat, and there was an unruly curl of hair sticking to his forehead when he turned to gaze at Dean over his shoulder. It was a good thing they had a second bed, because this one was ruined. 


	7. Knight in shining armor syndrome

Dean Winchester

It bled sluggishly into Dean’s awareness that it was morning, a very rude sunbeam was hitting him straight across the eyes, and something very solid and heavy was on his back. Fingers were skating down his side, and lips were pressing open mouthed kisses at the crook of his neck. Then Castiel shifted slightly and Dean could feel his very hard cock thrusting, trapped between his body and Dean’s ass. He groaned, his own dick quickly thickening to join the party. Somehow he couldn’t be bothered about that sunbeam anymore.

There was a low chuckle, and Castiel moved his lips to Dean’s ear. He bit down, hard enough to make Dean’s toes curl in pleasure, but not enough to hurt. “Morning,” he murmured then, his voice hoarse from sleep and arousal. Dean’s skin tingled where Castiel’s hot breath brushed over it. 

Dean slid a hand higher to curl into the bedsheet. “Morning,” he managed to say, his mind still stuck somewhere between Castiel’s hard cock against his ass and his fingers rubbing circles at his hip. God, this was the best way to wake up. He tilted his head back to give Castiel better access, and Castiel traced his way from Dean’s ear to the curve where neck met shoulder with the tip of his tongue. A shiver ran down Dean’s spine.

Castiel moved lower, mapping the contours of Dean’s body with his mouth and his hands. He reached his ass and bit down, making Dean whimper, and one of his hands slid lower to massage the inside of Dean’s thighs.

“Turn around,” Castiel ordered, lifting himself up only long enough for Dean to obey.

Dean’s cock stood swollen and red, and twitched desperately under Castiel’s intense gaze. The covers were shoved haphazardly to the end of the bed. Castiel slid lower, pushing Dean’s thighs over his arms. Dean let his knees fall open, and propped himself on his elbows to enjoy the view.

Castiel cocked an eyebrow, and Dean gave him a lazy shrug. Then, with his leg hooked over Castiel's shoulder, he urged him forward with his heels.

“You’re insufferable,” Castiel huffed, close enough to Dean's cock that his nose almost brushed it. 

Anticipation curled tight in Dean's belly. 

Castiel moved lower, to suck bruises on the insides of his thigh.

Dean was hot all over, but Castiel took his time, fingers digging into the meat of his ass, as he kissed and licked and sucked everywhere but Dean's dick. By the time he lifted his head to lick a slow trail up Dean's shaft, eyes locking together, Dean's whole body was trembling, arms threatening to give out. 

Castiel produced a condom from somewhere and rolled it on Dean’s dick. Then he closed his lips around the head of his cock. Dean threw his head back, a moan escaping his lips. He thrust up, and Castiel untangled one of his arms to press him down into the mattress. He stared up at Dean, pink lips stretched around his dick, daring him to move again. Bossy motherfucker. 

It was almost embarrassing how easily Dean came apart with Castiel's mouth on him. Castiel bobbed his head, taking Dean deeper every time, and Dean felt something pull, tighter and tighter and tighter, until he was sure he was about to snap. 

It was hot and wet and perfect, and Dean could barely breathe. Castiel was sucking, and licking, and then his hand came up to grab Dean’s balls and roll them in his palm, and Dean came with a curse.

He opened his eyes, panting, and stared at Castiel—flush faced, eyes blown, dick hard between his thighs. Dean pulled him from the back of the neck to crush their lips together, tasting the latex on his tongue. He rolled them over to return the favour.

*******

Castiel had jumped in the shower first, letting Dean bask in the post-orgasm glow while he spread out on the ruined bed. Dean could get used to this, falling asleep after fucking only to wake up to fuck again. Now if only there wasn’t a killer after them.

The groan of the rusty door hinges announced Castiel’s return to the room before he emerged out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. Crossing the room to get to his duffel bag, he narrowed his eyes at Dean. “What’s that smug face for?”

“You’re too grumpy for someone who just got laid,” Dean said, watching as Castiel let the towel drop to the floor. This time he had no trouble letting his eyes roam over Castiel’s naked form, sure that the slight flex—God, that ass—as he reached for his boxer briefs was a tease. 

“I’m grumpy when I have to deal with you in the morning,” Castiel huffed, crawling on the bed to drop next to Dean.

Rolling over to press a kiss to his lips, Dean hummed, “You’d miss me.” 

Castiel pulled back, a quizzical smile playing at the edge of his lips. “That was almost nice of you to say. What happened? I put out and suddenly you go all soft on me?”

“I can be nice when I want.” Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel’s waist, smirking. “As long as you plan to get me coffee in the near future.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, a whole-body movement that threw his head to the side. “Get a shower, and we can find a bakery or something around here. I have to feed you, too.”

“Wow, getting me breakfast? You’re gonna spoil me.”

“You’re going to need the extra calories,” Castiel said, mouth twitching in amusement before he could hide it.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Why? Do you have anything that requires plenty of energy planned for later?”

With a fond smile, Castiel reached to cup Dean’s cheek, drawing him in for a slow kiss. He pulled away slightly, his breath hot against Dean’s lips. “What? You’re down for more?” he asked, voice dropping.

Dean’s stomach fluttered. He placed his hand on Castiel’s thigh, giving a possessive squeeze. “I’m always down for more, sweetheart.”

Castiel stiffened. He dropped his hand from Dean’s face and turned away. “Yeah, I guess you are,” he muttered.

Dean pulled away surprised. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what had just happened, but Castiel’s good mood had evaporated in an instant. Castiel was scowling at his pillow, and Dean tried to ignore the tightening of his heart. Instead he took the chance to escape the sudden tension in the room and hid in the bathroom. 

Ten minutes later, Castiel was not in a much better mood, but at least he was willing to talk. He pointed at Dean’s pants, still on the floor where he’d tossed them last night. “I think your phone rang.”

Not exactly the topic Dean was interested in, but it was an improvement. He fished his phone out of his pocket, swiping with his thumb to check his notifications. He had two missed calls from Benny, all in the few minutes he’d been taking a shower—damn, and Dean hadn’t even had the time to tell Castiel about all the stuff Benny had sent last night, never mind actually looking at them. He also had a text message from Bass. He opened it, frowning.

“Everything okay?” Castiel asked.

Dean swallowed. He had a bad feeling about this. “Bass sent me an address. No explanation.”

Castiel cocked his head, confused.

“Get dressed,” Dean said, grabbing a shirt from the chair and tossing it at him. “We have to go.”

***

Another half-destroyed building.

If anything, at least the killer was consistent with location. Dean couldn’t pay any mind to that right now, however. The first sign that something was wrong, was that Benny was waiting for them at the crime scene. Something squeezed inside Dean’s chest. In Benny’s own words, he hadn’t been out to a crime scene in years. Whatever had forced him to come here today was bad news. 

Inside the building and down in the basement, forensics technicians had already started the slow walkthrough of the room in search of evidence, Aaron Bass was standing by the corner, talking to another agent, and Pamela Barnes was lying on the cold stone floor of the basement, dark hair matted with blood, a single gunshot wound between where her eyes should have been. Two dark, bloody holes stared up at the ceiling. No table, no sheet. She was just left there. As Dean squatted by the body, he felt sick to his stomach at the sight. Castiel had wanted to see evolution, and they were finally getting it.

Hands curling into a tight fist, Dean turned away. Castiel kept staring at the body, a muscle pulsing under his jaw.

Across the room, Bass lifted his eyes to look at them standing by Pamela’s body. He dismissed the agent he’d been talking to and came towards them.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Bass spat.

Benny stepped forward, cutting Bass’ path. “Aaron, calm down.”

“Calm down? Another one of our agents is dead. How can I be calm right now?”

“What did he do to her?” Castiel asked in a low voice, fingers flexing at his side, without looking away from the empty sockets of Pamela’s eyes.

Benny shook his head. “We think she was dead when it happened. We couldn’t find her eyes anywhere here.”

“Oh, so now he cares,” Bass said, glaring at Castiel. He stepped forward, an angry vein twitching on his temple.

This time it was Dean who stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you got a problem?”

“Do I have a problem? You’re asking me if I have a problem?” Bass snapped, directing all his fury to Dean.

“Aaron—” Benny tried, but Bass was beyond listening to reason.

“Yeah, I have a problem. I have a problem with you two fucking off to God knows where all the time while we’re all here fighting and searching and doing our fucking job and dying for it,” he said, gesturing at Pamela’s body.

Dean clenched his jaw, cold spreading inside him. “You think we’re not doing our fucking job?”

“I haven’t seen you doing anything since you arrived,” Bass sneered, coming closer to invade Dean’s personal space. Dean stood his ground, staring him down. From the corner of his eye he saw Castiel flinching away.

Dean had said something pretty similar to Castiel last night, that if another body showed up it’d be on his conscience for not allowing Dean to go out and investigate, but Dean knew how much Castiel was trying, and how he’d spent countless hours trying to crack the case, and he was not about to let Bass accuse either of them of negligence.

“As a matter of fact,” Bass continued, “the only thing you two have done is almost get yourselves killed. Or should I say, miraculously survive a hit from the serial killer, the only one so far that doesn’t fit his MO by the way.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Bass was really out of his mind if he’d reached a point where he’d dare even imply what Dean thought he was implying. Voice shaking, he said, “If you have something to say, Bass, say it to my face.”

“What I’m saying is that every time you two are unaccounted for another body shows up,” Bass hissed.

Dean felt the accusation like a bullet to the shoulder. “Are you crazy?”

“That’s enough.” Benny pushed the two apart, positioning himself between Bass and Dean. A wise choice, because if Bass kept sputtering nonsense, Dean couldn’t promise not to beat him to a bloody pulp. “Aaron, they weren’t even here when this whole story started. Get out of here. Find somebody to clear the building, and we’ll handle the crime scene.”

For a second it looked like Bass was going to refuse, and Dean didn’t know what he’d do, except maybe try and throw him out himself. Then Bass took a step back, lowered his eyes and stalked away.

Castiel was pale and shaking from the shock. “I’ll—I’ll just take a look at the body.”

Dean reached for him on instinct, but Castiel shook him off. Hand awkwardly raised between them, Dean asked, “Need any help?”

Castiel shook his head, avoiding Dean’s eyes. “No, it’s okay.” 

With a hand on his elbow, Benny led Dean towards the door, away from Castiel and the other agents in the room. He glanced at Castiel standing by Pamela’s body over his shoulder. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’re all a little frustrated with this case.” Dean ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm his nerves. He was still shaking with anger at all the bullshit Bass had said, but he couldn’t afford to lose his concentration. 

“Try terrified and angry,” Benny huffed, shoulders hunched forward.

Dean winced. How could he forget how this must feel for Benny? “God, sorry, man. How are you doing? Being back out at a crime scene and all?”

Βenny licked his lips, squining around the room. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” he said in the end. “But you know after Andrea…”

Dean nodded, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. “Hey, if you need to talk, you know I…” he trailed off. He wasn’t good with this, talking about feelings and shit. But Benny knew him enough by now to understand that Dean was ready to support him however he needed.

He patted Dean’s hand with a forced smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Lafitte, you said the eyes weren’t found?” Castiel came up to them, eyes wide, steps hurried and unsure.

Benny turned to face him. “That’s right. As of right now we assume he kept them as some kind of trophy.”

“Sick fuck,” Dean cursed. 

Castiel shook his head, lips trembling. “We were wrong,” he mumbled, face going pale.

Dean and Benny stared at him, neither understanding what he was trying to say.

“We were wrong,” Castiel said again, and this time his words came out fast and scrambled together. “He’s not killing agents because we’re after him. This is—This is what we’ve been missing all along. This whole thing isn’t a case, it’s a trap.”

Benny shifted his weight, eyes widening, but Castiel was only looking at Dean, pleading with him to understand.

“What are you talking about?” Dean asked, trying to make sense of what Castiel had said. He suspected he wouldn’t like the answer one bit.

“You were right. He is evolving. Just not in the way we thought he was. Think about it, Dean. Why were we involved in this in the first place? Not just us, but the FBI in general.”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat, mind slowly going back to reconsider everything he knew about the case. Pieces rearranged in his mind, connections cut off and recreated to form a new image, victims evaluated again. He was right, he didn’t like the conclusion he was coming to at all.

“Duke Anderson was specifically found in Connecticut even though his house was nowhere near there. Same thing with Miller in New Jersey. He did it on purpose,” Castiel said, putting everything in Dean’s mind into words.

“Shit, he wanted the FBI to come after him,” Dean said, grinding his teeth.

“But why? Why make his life harder?” Benny wondered, looking between the two of them.

Castiel clenched his jaw. “The same reason he’s going after the criminals. He’s cleansing the world.”

“We’re the good guys,” Dean complained. 

“But we couldn’t catch him,” Castiel said. “Or all the people he killed. We failed. He’s not posing the agents like they’re sleeping because they’re innocent, but because they’re sleeping while he’s doing their work.”

“He took Pamela’s eyes,” Benny pointed out.

Castiel nodded, solemn faced. “She was a profiler. Maybe he wanted to make sure she couldn’t ‘see’ him, but I think—I think he knows about the profile she created, and he knows that she could never see him to begin with. She was wrong.”

Dean exhaled roughly, throwing his head back. “And he punished her.”

“Just like he did with Day, and Delacruz, and Hawkins. And we’re next in line,” Castiel finished.

“That actually makes sense,” Benny said impressed, dark eyes shining. “Good job.”

“Alright. Fuck,” Dean groaned pressing two fingers over his lids. “We need to rethink everything about this case. I’ll find Bass.” 

“You do that. Novak and I can keep an eye on things in here,” Benny said. Then he winced. “Wrong choice of words.”

Dean looked around them, eyes moving over the agents and Pamela and the blood on the wall. If they were right they had to change their whole profile. “Yeah, if you need anything, call.”

The first place Dean went searching for Bass was outside, thinking that maybe he was still gathering his team, but he couldn’t see him anywhere on the street when he got there. He turned to the young agent guarding the front door and asked him if he’d seen Bass, only to be redirected inside. Bass had apparently already gone in search of other points of entry.

Dean thanked him and was about to turn around when his eyes fell on a car parked at the end of the road. A silver Audi. Dean paused.

“Hey, do you know whose car that is?” he asked, jerking his head towards the car.

The young agent lifted a hand to shield his face from the sun, squinting. “I’m pretty sure it belongs to Detective Crowley. He was holding the scene until we arrived.”

“Crowley, huh?”

“Want me to go check?” the agent asked.

“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

While he was still watching it, the car pulled away and disappeared down the road.

So Crowley was the one following them the other day, Dean thought while walking back inside. Coincidences were piling up one after the other, and Dean didn’t believe in coincidences. But Cas was right, they needed something more concrete before they started pointing fingers. They couldn’t even prove this was the same Audi that had tailed them, though it matched the plates of the one outside their hotel the night they were almost murdered. And yet, it was a pretty big red arrow pointing to the right direction. One Dean didn’t intend to ignore.

He tracked down Bass, who was going through the building with two other agents. Bass’ mouth thinned when he saw Dean approaching but he’d calmed down enough to not start another argument. He showed Dean a back door they’d found and their unsub could have used, but more importantly—and Dean’s pulse quickened at that—there was a door they couldn’t open.

Trying to keep his voice steady so as to not betray anything, Dean said, “I don’t think it’s worth looking into. If we can’t open it then neither could the unsub.” 

Bass hesitated, but he accepted Dean’s words. It made sense, and it was a thought that had occurred to Dean, too, when he and Castiel had gone down to the tunnels the first time, but his gut instinct was telling him that the killer really had a way of leaving the doors locked after he left. Dean just needed to figure out how.

“What are you doing here?” Bass asked then, and Dean took the chance to quickly explain Castiel’s new theory.

Horror bloomed across Bass’ face. “For fuck’s sake. It fits. Shit, we’ll have to release a new profile.” He stepped away from the other agents who were waiting for further instructions, and took his phone out. “Excuse me, I need to talk to our supervisory agent.” He lifted the phone to his ear, gesturing with a hand for the other men to continue the search without him. 

Dean was soon left alone. The perfect opportunity to do a little searching of his own. The locked door was fairly easy to find, Bass had told him the general direction he had to go to, and from there it was only a matter of keeping an ear out for anyone coming towards him as he sank to his knees to pick the lock. It took a few minutes and a lot of his concentration, but soon Dean was staring at the stairs hidden behind the door, leading below the building and surely to another tunnel.

Bingo. 

He needed to tell Cas. Their speculations had been correct.

Silently he made his way back, a hundred possibilities as to how the killer could have locked and unlocked the doors going through his mind, all dismissed. The stairs to the basement were just around the corner, but Dean paused before he reached it, the sound of familiar voices stopping him in his tracks. Benny and Castiel had come upstairs for a small break apparently. 

“—rocky start, but things are better now. We’ve come to some sort of agreement,” Castiel was saying, in his usual gravelly tone.

“Huh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you two aren’t at each other’s throats all the time anymore. I’m just surprised you took to Dean so quickly,” Benny answered.

Gossipping about Dean behind his back, jeez, didn’t those two idiots have anything better to do? Dean tucked himself further into the shadows.

“You were his partner for a long time and a very good friend from what he tells me. Why does it seem so strange to you?” Castiel asked.

“Dean is like weeds,” Benny said. A pause that Dean could easily fill with Castiel’s deep frown. Then: “Not the drug. I meant the plants. Garden weeds.”

“Your metaphor is lost on me,” Castiel admitted, and despite himself, Dean’s chest filled with warmth at the image of his head tilting in confusion.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Benny provided.

“That he is.” Castiel said, and Dean had to muffle his laugh at the image of Castiel trying not to limp this morning after their extracurricular activities last night.

“But he grows on you. He appears in your life, takes root, until you can’t get rid of him, no matter how much you try. He keeps coming back. Hell, one day you’ll wake up and he’ll be your best man before you even realize what’s happening.” Dean rolled his eyes. Count on Benny to have a heart to heart right next to one of their murdered colleagues. 

“Is that what happened with you?” Castiel asked.

“Oh, no. But only because I was already married when I met him.” 

There was a stretch of silence, long enough that Dean wondered if maybe now was the time for his return. 

Castiel cut through his thoughts with a soft: “I’m sorry about your wife. Dean said she passed.”

A pained sound escaped Benny, but Dean was relieved it didn’t sound as desperate as it used to. “She did. Robbery gone wrong,” he said, his voice breaking. “You know for a long time I wanted to quit,” he admitted in a soft voice.

Surprise flared inside Dean, though not because he didn’t suspect that Benny had been on the verge of giving up—not just his job but everything. Dean had been worried Benny had reached his breaking point a long time ago, especially when the investigation had failed to catch the burglar that had killed Andrea. He was surprised Benny admitted that much to Castiel.

Castiel hummed, a raspy sound in the back of his throat. “Why didn’t you?” A simple question, too simple for what they were discussing in Dean’s opinion. But Castiel was precise like that. Getting to the heart of the issue instead of tiptoeing around it. At least when it didn’t concern him. Benny would appreciate that.

“I think it was because—” Benny started. He took a second to gather his thoughts. “I knew I could do good if I stayed. It’s why I joined the Bureau, why I… Everything I did, it was because I wanted to make the world a better place.”

“A noble cause,” Castiel said. “I can see why you and Dean worked so well together.”

Benny huffed, something close to a laugh. “Yes. Knight in shining armor syndrome. Similar backgrounds didn’t hurt either.”

“You were a marine, too?” Castiel asked, surprise evident in his voice.

The ceiling above Dean’s head creaked with the footsteps of the agents checking the upper floors, but it was not enough to cover Benny’s next words: “Nah. Airforce. But we understood each other in a way other agents couldn’t. It takes a special kind of crazy to fight a war, come back, and then throw yourself right back into fighting. Like I said, knight in shining armor syndrome.”

“Dean is a warrior and a martyr, but he’s not a knight in shining armor,” Castiel said, matter-of-fact. “That would mean he wants recognition for what he does. Dean’s not like that.”

Dean felt something bright and hot curling under his ribs. His ears were burning. Castiel’s faith in him was flattering, if misplaced in Dean’s opinion. He’d have never believed Castiel thought of him as anything more than a cocky asshole with a good aim if he hadn’t heard it from his own mouth, but there they were. Castiel had him all figured out and the emotion welling up inside him was too overwhelming to suppress.

Benny said, “Good analysis. You’ve figured him out faster than I did when we first met. You have a masters in criminal psychology right? Read it in your file.”

Dean didn’t wait to hear Castiel’s answer. On silent feet, he traced his steps back a few feet. He counted three minutes, trying to ignore that heavy feeling inside him that appeared more and more often lately, and always when Castiel was around, and which he’d rather not think about. From the very first moment their lips had touched (maybe even before that) Dean had been falling, and he was worried there was no safety net to catch him.

He took a deep, steadying breath, then walked back out, this time making sure his footsteps were heard.

He slipped back into his professional role easily, despite the storm inside him. “Found Bass. He’s talking with the supervisory agent as we speak about our new theory.”

Castiel’s and Benny’s eyes lingered on him, but Dean stepped neatly past them. He went down the stairs where the coroner and his assistant were just about finished. They were putting Pamela in a body bag, her lovely, scarred face disappearing behind the zipper. He watched as they carried her away, a sinking feeling inside him. She hadn’t deserved this, but neither had any of the other victims. And knowing this was just a sick game to the killer… Dean wanted to throw up. 

Benny and Castiel had followed him down, but then they’d walked further inside the room to talk with the evidence technicians, who were documenting everything, the discussion Dean had overheard apparently finished. Over the shoulders of other people and across the room, Castiel’s eyes kept coming back to him, until finally, Castiel nodded his thanks to the man he was talking to and came looking.

“You were looking for Bass for quite some time,” he observed.

Most of that time had been spent picking the lock—which Dean was not going to discuss in a room full of people, even if they didn’t seem like they were paying any attention to them—and hiding around a corner—which he wasn’t planning on revealing to Castiel any time soon. Or ever for that matter. He shook his head. “We’ll talk later.” He pointedly eyed the men behind Castiel. “Somewhere more private.”

Castiel didn’t fight him on it, but he did crease his eyebrows in concern. “Dean, are you okay?”

Scuffing his foot on the ground, Dean pushed his hands in his pockets, face lowered. “Yeah, fine. Nothing to worry about.”

Castiel shifted closer, putting himself between Dean and everyone else in the room. It was his way of giving Dean some semblance of privacy, useless but comforting in its own way. “Are you sure?”

Dean rubbed a finger over his eyebrow, collecting his thoughts. These past few hours had been an emotional roller coaster, and problems only kept springing up. What Dean wanted, what he needed, was probably to go back home and curl in bed with Castiel for a couple of days with nothing else to worry about but what to eat in between making out. And needing that was his biggest problem currently. A feat, considering a serial killer was actively searching for him. 

“I’m just…” Dean started. He exhaled roughly. “I have a lot on my plate right now. I mean this thing—us?” He dropped his voice as low as it could go. Castiel frowned down at his hand gesturing between them. “It complicates things.”

A pained grimace crossed Castiel’s face as he flinched back. He checked around them for anyone in earshot, and he whispered, “It’s just sex, Dean. It doesn’t have to mean anything other than us working some steam off.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. There was bile rising in the back of his throat, and Castiel was regarding him with a stony expression on his face. He gulped. “Yeah, just sex.”

***

There were plenty of things to be done, and Dean counted down in his head until the moment he could use some flimsy excuse and get out of the crime scene. They didn’t need him there, not really, and anyway he was pretty sure they wouldn’t find any useful evidence. Their killer was too smart for that. No, the real place to go searching for that kind of stuff was down in the tunnels.

The moment presented itself when Benny announced he’d be going back to the office. From then on it wouldn’t be strange if other agents were to start going on their way. Bass had everything under control, and the evidence technicians were almost done, anyway. He waited another half an hour, just to be sure, then he tracked down Castiel and explained to him what he’d found.

“You’ve known all this time and only now think to tell me?” Castiel hissed, eyes darting around them.

“It wasn’t like I could just come up to you and announce I’ve found an entrance to creepy, dark tunnels in front of everyone.”

Castiel glared at him. 

Dean could have gone alone. Nobody would have been looking for him, and he could have checked out the tunnels without Castiel’s bitching and worrying. It might have looked weird if he’d just disappeared from the crime scene, but even so, the point was he chose not to. Despite their rocky start and fragile partnership, Castiel was reliable and dutiful. Dean might not always agree with his way of doing things but everything he’d done, he’d done with Dean’s best interest in mind. And Dean had promised not to go down there alone. He wasn’t going to go back on his promise now.

“You have the maps Charlie sent downloaded in your phone, right? Do you think you could find another entrance nearby we could use?” Dean asked. It had occurred to him that disappearing from the crime scene without actually leaving from the front door might be a bad idea. Good thing the map showed several entrances in public places as well.

Castiel sighed. “Fine. I’ll find an entrance. But you can’t keep things like that from me, Dean, you have—”

“Yeah, gotta talk to you,” Dean cut him off. “And I am. It just wasn’t the right moment.”

***

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Castiel complained as he climbed down.

“Yeah, yeah. Get used to it.” Dean kept the beam of his light steady on the stairs to light Castiel’s way. The nearest entrance they could find had been through a manhole in the middle of a park, and of course, like the gentleman he was, Dean had offered to go down first. The fact that waiting for Castiel to get down gave him the perfect view of his ass had nothing to do with his decision. It was merely a bonus.

Once Castiel was standing next to him, looking grumpy and dusty and adorable, Dean turned his flashlight down the tunnel. “Which way?”

Castiel fumbled with his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in to the area they were currently at. He cocked his head to the side studying it. He pointed to their right. “That way.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Can I take a look?”

He raised his hand, palm up, but Castiel held the phone away from him, scowling. “You don’t trust me?”

Dean bit back a smile. “I trust you. I just want to make sure you’re not gonna get us lost.”

“We are not going to get lost,” Castiel insisted, starting down the tunnel by himself.

Before he could lose him in the dark, Dean ran to catch up with him. “Come on, don’t be like that, sweetheart. I’m just teasing you.”

Castiel shook his head. “I wish you wouldn't.” A pause. “ _ Sweetheart. _ ”

Dean frowned at him in confusion, but Castiel had his eyes stubbornly stuck to the map. So whatever had been bothering Castiel since this morning was still not a topic he wanted to discuss. Okay, then. Dean had better things to do anyway.

They navigated through the tunnels, thankfully without getting lost, and soon they were standing at the base of the staircase leading up to the building Pamela Barnes had been found in. Dean pointed his light to the wall next to the opening. “Check this out.”

“The hobo glyph,” Castiel said, tracing the symbol on the wall with his fingers.

“Safe place, right?” Dean stepped closer, eyes moving along the rest of the wall, searching for other marks, but that was the only one near the door. 

Unfortunately for them, this part of the tunnels was in worse shape than the one they’d found originally. None of the lights were working, so save for Dean’ flashlight, they were standing in complete darkness, their pants already damp at the bottom from the puddles of water on the ground—and Dean didn’t want to think that they could be anything else but water.

At least this confirmed it once and for all. Their killer was coming and going through the tunnels, and he was using hobo glyphs to mark the buildings he was going to use. How long would one have to spend down here to learn his way? Days? Weeks? Months? It would still be too dangerous, especially with no light.

“We should take a look further down. If we can find another staircase with that hobo glyph we might discover the location of the next murder,” he suggested.

Finger still pressed against the symbol, Castiel nodded.

They walked further down, the suffocating stench of stale water filling Dean’s nose. He could already feel the chill penetrating him. He shone his light on every staircase they came across, but no symbol was noted there. And then they reached a point where the tunnel branched out in two different directions.

“Dean, look at this.” Castiel tugged him towards the one to their right, pointing to something curved in the corner of the wall: A circle with a curved line attached to it, like a crooked tail. “That’s—”

“It means ‘turn right here’.” 

Castiel turned to him, mouth hanging open in surprise. 

Dean shrugged. “I did some research on hobo glyphs while you were sleeping,” he explained sheepishly. He hoped Castiel would drop the subject, because he really didn’t feel like explaining how he’d thought speaking hobo was kinda cool. 

Castiel, thankfully, turned his attention back to the mark. “Should we follow it?”

“Definitely,” Dean agreed. It made sense. Like Dean had been using symbols to find his way in the woods when hiking with his father, their killer was using hobo glyphs to find his way in this maze of tunnels and passageways. How could Dean not have thought about it before?

They went down the path the symbol indicated and then continued walking, finding more symbols and adjusting their course accordingly. Castiel tried to keep track of where they were going with his map, and he guessed they were heading towards the area the other murders had taken place. Soon they’d come across the building Annie Hawkins had been murdered in.

Still none of the lights above them worked. Dean kept his flashlight aimed ahead of them, so he had to squint to make out what was hidden in the shadows in the side passages they weren’t exploring. Castiel was pressed to his side, shoulders tense.

Then he heard something to his far left. The hair at the back of his neck stood immediately, his instincts recognizing a threat before his mind had the time to catch up. He stood very still, and Castiel paused next to him, holding his breath. He’d heard it, too, then.

Castiel had his gun in his hand in a matter of seconds, and Dean followed his lead. He wasn’t too keen on putting his phone away, however, and losing the only source of light they had. If whoever was down there with them was dangerous, Dean would have to rely on Castiel’s reflexes to keep them both safe, for at least the first few seconds. Not the most ideal of situations, but Dean was willing to bet on his partner’s skills.

A shuffling noise was heard, like somebody was trying to walk away. Dean raised an eyebrow, and Castiel nodded.

Dean jerked the beam of the light towards the source of the noise, just in time to see a man in a dark hoodie disappearing around a corner. “FBI,” he shouted, Castiel immediately raising his gun.

The man’s footsteps were now loud and clear as he ran away from them.

“Fuck,” Dean cursed. He raised his gun, hoping his aim with one hand would be good enough, and then he and Castiel took off after him. They chased the man down a passage—a straight line thankfully—but he had a good head start on them.

“Stop running and hands up,” Castiel tried, but the man only ducked his head and sprinted faster. He cut right, changing direction at the very last minute and he disappeared from their eyesight. 

They turned too, but abruptly stopped when they came across two different passages in front of them. 

The man was smart, no sound could be heard now to tip them off as to which direction he’d taken—no footsteps, no heavy breathing, nothing. No lights either, of course. 

“Dean, which one?” Castiel asked, his breathing far steadier than Dean’s. Dean had to commend him for him stamina.

He eyed both passages. Quick decisions were better than no decisions at all. “I’ll take the left, you take the right,” he said, darting away.

“Dean, wait—” Castiel said. “Fuck.”

Dean could hear him going down the other way. His pulse was deafening inside his ears, his breathing too loud. Fuck, he had no visual. They’d lost him. Dean slowed down. There were too many places for the man to have taken another turn, too many staircases he could have used to escape. They’d lost him. 

Cursing, he started his way back, hoping Castiel hadn’t wandered off too far. 

There was a muted scratch of heels against the ground, and then somebody had his arm around Dean’s neck, cutting his airflow. Dean tried to fight, but the man tightened his hold, and before Dean had any time to react he was thrown against the wall, the impact jostling all the air out of his lungs. He dropped his phone, but thankfully not his gun. The man was on him again, and though Dean jerked his arm away preparing to fire, the man grabbed Dean’s head.

Desperately, Dean fired a shot. It didn’t even come close to hitting the man but that wasn’t Dean’s intention anyway. The man flinched for a second, and if Dean hadn’t been dazed by the previous impact then he might have taken advantage of that hesitation. But he didn’t, and the moment was gone, and the man crushed his head against the wall with a sickening crunch.

With a curse that never made it out of his throat, the world faded away, and Dean was plunged into darkness.


	8. Will you stay with me?

Castiel Novak

Castiel crept down the dark tunnel, keeping his ears open. Dean was a fool to think being separated was a good idea, but Castiel couldn’t exactly lose time hunting down his partner when they were pursuing a possible suspect. How was he even supposed to see the unsub now that Dean was gone and had taken the light with him? At least the darkness was as much a cover for him as for their suspect. In that respect, they were on even grounds, though the other man surely knew these tunnels much better than Castiel. He could only hope the man they were chasing was unarmed. He gritted his teeth, his hold on his gun firm, and continued on.

A loud bang echoed down the tunnels. 

Castiel froze in place. In an instant he was running back where he came from, one hand on the wall to his right to help him find his way. It was good he’d walked slowly because that meant he’d counted the distance he had made and could easily retrace his steps back to where he and Dean had gone down separate paths. He turned without losing any of his momentum, skating across the floor briefly, then regaining his balance.

He had to hurry. He couldn’t afford to lose even a second, not when he’d just heard a gunshot from where he knew Dean was. Dean had no reason to fire his gun, unless he’d found the man they were chasing. Or the man had found him.

“Dean!” he shouted desperately. The light from Dean’s phone was dim and muted and so far away, but at least he could see it now, further down the tunnel.

Castiel pushed himself faster. Every step took him closer to where the source of the light was. With every step he could make out more and more. He could see the man’s back as he ran down the tunnel, and he could see a body lying on the floor, and Jesus, he couldn’t be late, he couldn’t be late.

“FBI,” he yelled. “Freeze!”

But the man was already turning down another passage and disappearing from his eyesight. 

Castiel cursed. 

Dean was lying on the floor, unmoving. He couldn’t chase the man, but he hoped he was fast enough to save Dean. He dropped to his knees, gun tossed to the floor next to him, discarded but not forgotten, for the threat of the man returning was still a very real possibility. Hands on Dean’s shoulders, Castiel shook him carefully, trying not to jostle him too much. 

The phone had landed at an awkward angle, the light grey and dim, and Dean's face was covered in shadows. “Dean, are you okay? Dean?” Castiel tried, bringing one hand up to cup his face and stroke a thumb from Dean’s temple to the apple of his cheek. He could feel dust and pebbles falling away. His fingers came away bloody.

It took all of Castiel’s self-restraint to get his breathing under control and try to make sense of the situation. There was blood yes, but for a head wound it wasn't much; and bent over Dean, with a hand on his chest, Castiel could feel his chest rising and falling with his breathing. 

“Dean, I need you to wake up,” Castiel hissed. 

With another soft shake, Dean groaned, eyelids fluttering before he blinked up, dazed, at Castiel.

“Cas?” he mumbled, a hand coming up to touch gingerly at his temple where he’d hit his head. “Fuck.”

Relief washed through Castiel. He grabbed Dean’s hand, keeping it away from the wound from which blood was still running. “Dean, are you okay?”

“I- shit. I don’t know. My head is swimming, and my whole left side hurts,” Dean complained.

Castiel fished around in his pockets for something to help stop the bleeding. He came up with a paper towel he’d stashed there just that morning, while getting cofee before going to the crime scene. The cashier had shoved dozens of them at him, and Castiel had thought he’d tossed all of them, but apparently had missed one. It all seemed so distant now.

He pressed the towel against Dean’s head, and ignored how it was probably useless with the way it soaked through instantly. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Dean pressed his lips together, eyes closing briefly. “We were- Yeah, yeah. I’m- I can. I think,” Dean said as Castiel helped him lean against the wall for support. 

Then Castiel turned around retrieving his gun and Dean's phone. His eyes scanned the ground around them. 

“We went down the tunnels. There was a guy.”

“He attacked you,” Castiel said, trying to jostle his memory. 

“I don't… Shit. Cas, everything is fuzzy.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel reassured him. “Do you think you can get up?”

Dean raised his hand, blindly reaching for him, asking for help. Being as careful as he could, Castiel pulled him up, supporting him until they were both standing. 

On instinct, Dean threw a hand out searching for a wall, and Castiel tightened his hold on him. “Jesus, I’m going to throw up.” 

“Can you stand on your own?” Castiel asked, slowly walking him towards the nearest wall. “Dean, where’s your gun?”

Dean brought a hand to his side, where Castiel knew his shoulder holster was. “I don't know. I think I fired it.”

“You did fire it.” Castiel used the flashlight to search the area, but there was no gun to be found. The other man had probably taken it with him when he fled. Another reason for them not to stay down there any longer.  Deeming the gun a lost cause, Castiel turned to Dean. “Come on, we have to get you to a hospital.” 

Dean’s eyes widened. “Hospital? Oh no. Cas, no hospital.”

Castiel grabbed his arm, pulling it over his neck to help him as they walked back to the entrance they'd used to get down here. The thought of finding another exit crossed his mind, but he couldn't be sure it wouldn't be blocked or locked, and Dean wasn’t in any state to pick locks, or be left alone in the cold and dark while Castiel searched for a new way out. Their car was there anyway, he reasoned, and since calling for help was out of the question while they were down in the tunnels with no reception, their car was the fastest way to get to a doctor. 

“Cas, no hospital,” Dean insisted, slumped as he was against him.

“Dean, you’re bleeding, and you can barely walk,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “You probably have a concussion, too. You need to be looked over by a doctor.”

“No, no. Cas, you can't. I don't want to.” Dean started struggling, pulling away from Castiel until he got his arm free, and he jerked away on wobbly legs. “No hospital.”

Frustrated, and with his hands full with trying to keep the phone at the right angle to both light the way and still be able to read the maps from the screen, Castiel clenched his jaw, wishing Dean would make his life easy for once. “Don't be a baby.”

“No, no. Look, I’m fine.” Dean straightened his back, and though he still had a hand on the wall, he managed to take a couple of steps forward without losing his balance or falling over. “I can walk on my own, I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt and dizzy,” Castiel said flatly, moving to help him again, but Dean pushed him away.

“I can walk, and I don't need a hospital.”

“Fine,” Castiel huffed, frustrated. “You can walk, so walk. The exit is that way. We can talk about the hospital after we find the car again.”

Dean nodded.

They slowly made their way back, using the hobo glyphs to navigate until they reached the murder scene and then, a few minutes later, the manhole they'd come through. It took them longer to return than it had to explore. Dean walked slowly, stubbornly refusing any help Castiel tried to give him, but he managed to make it all the way on his own. He went up the ladder first, Castiel close behind to catch him if he got dizzy or lost consciousness while they were climbing up, but thankfully, no such thing happened, and soon they were out of the manhole and inside their car.

Dean driving was obviously not happening, no matter how much he grumbled and complained. From the driver’s seat, Castiel eyed him as he sat pouting, arms folded in front of his chest.

“God, such a baby,” Castiel mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m trying to google the nearest hospital.” Castiel took his phone out, ready to do exactly as he'd said, but Dean grabbed his phone and stopped him.

“Cas, please. I don't want to go the hospital,” Dean said, his fingers trembling where they touched Castiel.

“You’re hurt,” Castiel argued.

“Please don't take me to the hospital. I did what you asked when you said not to tell Benny about our new hotel, so please, do as I say now,” Dean begged, eyes wide and locked on Castiel.

Castiel took a moment to search his face. He was pale and there was dry blood covering the right side of his face, but now they were back outside and Castiel could take a better look at it, the wound wasn't that deep, just like he'd thought. And Dean had walked on his own all the way out here, and hadn't complained of any nausea yet. Losing consciousness was worrying, but his symptoms were as good as Castiel could have hoped for.

Castiel dropped his hand. “Fine, no doctor,” he said. With a raised eyebrow in warning he added, “But I'm keeping a close eye on you. You feel any worse you tell me immediately, and then we go to the hospital. No other discussion.”

Dean’s shoulders relaxed, and he dropped back to his seat, releasing Castiel's hand. “Deal.”

With a sigh, Castiel started the car and turned them towards their hotel. He wanted to clean Dean’s wound and take a look at his leg. He’d noticed him limping slightly while they’d been walking. He doubted it was anything more serious than a strained ankle, but he wanted to check for sure. 

And then there was the matter of getting attacked and Dean’s stolen gun. They’d have to call that in. There would be papers to fill out and questions to answer, and Castiel didn’t have the right answers. Keeping the tunnels a secret had been a decision made based on his own insecurity and unwillingness to trust their team. Aaron Bass had already accused them of being involved with the murders somehow—which was absurd and outrageous—and revealing they’d been hiding vital information wouldn’t paint them in a flattering light. More likely it would lead them to an interrogation room, probably handcuffed to the table, from the way Bass was acting lately.

But with Dean’s gun in the hands of their unsub—because Castiel had trouble believing anyone would run and attack them if he wasn’t involved in the case—covering this up was out of the question. Castiel had taken a look at the ballistic report Benny had sent him, and with every murder of an agent, the gun used had always belonged to the victim. Castiel was pretty sure this was about to change. The next victim would be shot with Dean’s Colt, and that opened up a whole new window of trouble.

Dean was leaning against the window, eyes half closed and one arm curled around his waist protectively. He looked pale and exhausted, but Castiel knew better than to let him fall asleep. “Hey,” he said in a soft voice, making Dean stir. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good. Don’t worry,” Dean grunted, settling back in his seat, staring at the road.

“I can’t let you sleep.”

“‘m not going to.”

“You look like you’d fall asleep standing right about now,” Castiel commented. Then, because Dean didn’t look like he was happy to keep the conversation going, he asked, “Why don’t you want to go to the hospital? It’s not like they’ll torture you, the worst they can do is keep you for a night to watch you.”

For a moment Castiel thought Dean wasn’t going to answer. But Dean sighed, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the window. “If I go to the hospital they’ll have to call my brother.”

“I doubt they’d call your brother for a concussion, Dean,” Castiel said, frowning.

“Maybe not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“You don’t want your brother to know you got hurt?”

Dean licked his lips, tightening his arm around himself. “I don’t want him to worry without it being important. Sammy keeps telling me to be careful, not to be reckless and jump into dangerous situations without a second thought. It’s hard on him if I end up in the hospital every other week.”

“It’s a brother’s job to worry,” Castiel said, careful not to sound critical of Dean’s choices. Personally, he disagreed, but he couldn’t force his own principles on someone else. It was Dean’s decision to make, and not Castiel’s, whether his brother would find out about this injury or not.

Dean huffed, a low sound close to laughing. “Obviously you’ve never met Sam. If he hadn’t become a lawyer he’d be an ethics professor or some shit like that. His lectures can go on for hours. Sometimes I wonder how Eileen puts up with him.”

“Eileen is his wife?”

A small smile blossomed on Dean’s face. Despite all his complaining, talking about his family lifted his mood. “Yeah. She’s amazing. They met when she hired Sam to sue her old boss for unfair treatment. Asshole fired her for being deaf, not that he actually ever said it outright, but it was obvious.” 

Castiel wanted to keep Dean talking, make sure he wasn’t getting any worse. So far, Dean’s cognitive skills had seemed fine, no slurring, no confusion, no major disorientation, but that could change at any moment. His family was a topic that Dean seemed eager to discuss, so Castiel stuck to that.

“And you have a younger brother, too, right?” he asked, counting down the minutes until they reached their hotel.

“Yeah, Adam. Half-brother actually. He’s a good kid. He and his mom, Kate, still live in Lawrence. He wants to become a doctor, so he has to study hard.”

Castiel turned to him surprised. He’d have never guessed Dean was from the midwest. There was no hint of an accent when he talked, and nothing he’d ever said had pointed to growing up in a small town. All the conversations he’d had with Castiel about his past, Dean had talked about New York and Washington, and seeing how close he was with Singer, Castiel had assumed Dean had grown up somewhere close by. Maybe Boston, if not DC.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. “What, no other questions to distract me? Come on, Cas, I’m sure you can come up with something.”

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. When they were only a few blocks from the hotel, Castiel said, “It’s my mom.”

Dean turned to him with a questioning look, so Castiel added, “It’s my mother I’m waiting to call. She had a stroke last year.”

Dean winced, probably remembering the other night, when he’d joked about Castiel waiting for a lover’s call. “I’m sorry it happened,” he said, offering an olive branch Castiel was happy to take.

He nodded distractedly. “The recovery hasn’t been easy. Most of the time she doesn’t even remember she has a son, let alone recognize me. I used to visit her, but she got upset on her bad days, and thought I was her doctor on her good ones. Once she called me by my father’s name. After I moved out here it was hard to visit, and calling was out of the question if she couldn’t remember me. So I wait for the rare days she does remember and asks one of the nurses to speak with me.”

Dean reached to rest his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, trying to comfort him. “I’m sorry. That sounds rough.”

Castiel took a deep breath. “It’s been two months since she last called me,” he admitted. “But at least the nurses keep me up to date with her health. She’s happy, I think.”

Dean’s only answer was a gentle squeeze. He didn’t ask about Castiel’s father, which Castiel was thankful for. He guessed Dean’s family history wasn’t exactly all roses either, from what little Dean had told him. Maybe he could understand, if only a little, how Castiel felt.

A couple of minutes later they were parked in front of the hotel, caution be damned because Castiel was not in the mood to force Dean to walk longer than he had to already.

He helped Dean all the way to their room, and then let him drop on his bed. 

“Ah, shit,” Dean said, one hand grappling for Castiel as he dropped his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asked, cupping Dean’s face to make him look up.

“Yeah, just got a little dizzy there,” Dean said, eyes wide.

“Here let me help you.” Castiel kneeled in front of him, and moved to help him take off his shoes. Their conversation in the car was still heavy in his mind, and he was sure the same was true for Dean. In an effort to lighten the mood, he said, “Lucky you. It usually takes more effort to get me on my knees.”

Dean grinned. “If you’re gonna talk dirty to me do it when there’s only one of you.”

Castiel shook his head, not sure how much of what Dean was saying was joking and how much truth. “How many of me are there now?”

“Don’t worry,” Dean said, brushing a hand down Castiel’s cheek. “You’re the prettiest of the three, sweetheart.”

Castiel couldn’t help the sharp cut in his gut when he heard the word. He tried to stop himself from jerking away, but Dean froze all the same, sensing the change in Castiel’s mood. His hand dropped away. 

“You okay?”

Castiel pushed himself up with a groan. He turned away. “Don’t call me that.”

After a long stretch of silence, during which Castiel pretended to be busy taking his jacket and holster off, Dean sighed. “Okay.” He sounded frustrated, like he didn’t understand exactly what Castiel’s problem was, but he was willing to let it go to avoid another confrontation. 

They didn’t have time for more fighting. Just like they didn’t have time for Castiel to be crumbling inside with his feelings for Dean. He shouldn’t have let himself get attached. He’d seen Dean use his charisma to charm baristas and waitresses first hand, just like he’d seen how quickly all of them had been forgotten. To him, flirting was a muscle that needed stretching from time to time, apparently. Teasing was his second nature.

For Castiel, things were different.

Maybe letting his control slip around Dean had been a mistake, but now it had happened, and Castiel wasn’t sure he had the option of going back to how things were before.

“Help me change clothes?” Dean asked, and Castiel was grateful for the distraction.

Apart from the head wound, which Castiel cleaned carefully with a damp towel, Dean had also bruised almost the entirety of his left side, from chest to waist. It was from when the suspect had thrown him against the wall. He’d be pretty sore for a couple of days, but otherwise he was fine.  Castiel was cautiously optimistic about his recovery.

Deciding to focus on Dean for tonight, and deal with everything else the next day, Castiel helped him get settled in one of the beds for the night.

“Will you stay with me?” Dean murmured, patting the empty space on the bed next to him.

“Of course.”

***

It was a long and torturous night for both of them. 

Castiel refused to fall asleep. Instead he stayed up in the dark, keeping an eye on Dean and waking him up every few hours to make sure he was still okay. Not even when Dean rolled over frustrated to curl around Castiel, one arm thrown over his waist to pull him closer and the other under Castiel’s head, did Castiel relax. He didn’t think he’d be able to relax until they managed to catch the killer. Or at the very least until twenty four hours had passed since Dean had hit his head and he hadn’t got worse.

It must have been around nine in the morning, Dean finally peacefully asleep, his face soft and untroubled, and Castiel still spooned in his arms and wide awake, that a soft beep from his phone caught Castiel’s attention.

He tried to slip away without disturbing Dean, but Dean opened his eyes to blink at him almost as soon as Castiel was out of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel whispered, despite being just the two of them in the room. “Go back to sleep.”

“Are you coming back?”

Castiel glanced guiltily towards his phone. “Let me just check my phone.”

“Oh.” Dean stirred, lifting his head. “Phone call?”

“Message,” Castiel answered distracted. He tapped a couple of times on the screen. “From Charlie.” 

Dean was instantly up. He looked a little dizzy at his sudden movement, but not anywhere near like he'd been last night. At least he was getting better, Castiel supposed, and they really would get away without taking him to a hospital.

Eyes focusing back on Castiel, Dean said, “Is it about Crowley’s file?”

“It is,” Castiel confirmed. He slipped away from the bed, finding his laptop and bringing that back. He found the email Charlie had sent and opened the file. He quickly scanned everything, his breath catching at his throat as he read.

Dean crowded Castiel, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen. “What? What does it say?” 

Castiel turned to him, mind still reeling from all the information. “Dean…” he trailed off. Unable to put all his thoughts into a coherent sentence, he passed the computer to Dean.

Dean snatched it, placed it on his lap, and quickly scrolled up to the beginning. His lips moved as he read, mouthing the words. Normally, Castiel would have found it endearing, but he was too busy watching Dean frown as he realized the same thing Castiel had a moment ago.

According to the file Charlie had sent them, Fergus Crowley had been born as Fergus Roderick McLeod, to father Roger and mother Rowena. His mother had abandoned both him and his father pretty early on, and judging from the domestic dispute reports and arrest warrants for DUI, Castiel couldn't exactly blame her. Why she'd left her son behind was a mystery, though. One Castiel didn't have the patience to solve, and more importantly, an event that had shaped Fergus to the man he was today.

“Cas, this is it,” Dean breathed.

Castiel nodded. “It fits our profile for the background of the unsub. Drunk father, son that ended up in the hospital a few too many times but too scared to actually report anything.”

“Authorities that couldn't step in and save him, that child abduction case the FBI took for him. I bet he blames the Bureau for that kid dying,” Dean added. He pointed to a part on the screen. “Did you see that? That investigation for the hunting accident?”

“I did,” Castiel said. “The investigation ruled it as an accident, and it may well have been. It doesn't really matter how that guy ended up on the wrong end of Roger’s shotgun, all that's important is that Crowley supported his father with his testimony.”

“If his father was beating the shit out of him, of course he did,” Dean growled, hands curling into fists. “But what I meant was, Crowley used to go hunting with his father. He has experience with rifles. He could be the one who tried to kill you.”

“I’d focus more on the part about his father falling down the stairs and breaking his neck than Crowley hunting.”

“Do you think Crowley did it?”

“He could have,” Castiel shrugged. “Maybe he couldn't take it anymore, maybe his father had beaten him more than usual. Pushing someone down the stairs is the easiest thing in the world, especially when that someone has as much alcohol inside them as Roger McLeod had that night.”

“And so Fergus ends up in foster care for the next four years and comes out with a different name and a dream to join the police. Shit, he even wrote down that his family history was what motivated him to choose this career in his application,” Dean exhaled, running a hand through his short hair. “What do we do.”

“We find evidence that we’re right,” Castiel answered immediately.

“What? Without telling Benny and Bass about this?” Dean protested. He gestured towards the screen. “Do you really think we need more than what we already have?”

“With just his file, the best we can hope for is booking him for questioning,” Castiel said, shaking his breath. And that was their best case scenario, because really no matter how much they pushed for this, it just wasn't enough to get Crowley. They needed more and fast. “Crowley will walk away a free man in a few hours, and then he’ll know that we have our eyes on him. Even if he can't find us, do you think Bass will be as lucky? Or Benny?”

“Which is why we should at least tell them. You said it yourself, Cas, this whole case is an elaborate trap to get agents. And we're walking right into it,” Dean argued. He pushed the laptop away, then rolled over until he was close to Castiel, pleading eyes boring holes into him. “We haven't even told them about my gun.”

“And we will. We'll tell them everything,” Castiel promised, pinning his hand on the mattress to stop himself from reaching for Dean. He clenched his jaw against the need to brush his thumb over the worry lines creasing his forehead. Castiel had to remain a professional. “Just give me a little time.”

“To do what? Break into his house hoping to find bloody clothes?” Dean exploded. Then, as Castiel's eyes fell away guiltily, his mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. You actually do, you want to break into his apartment.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Castiel bit back.

Dean squinted at him. “No, but yours is a crappy idea.”

“A crappy idea is better than no idea at all,” Castiel pointed out, wishing Dean could just agree on something with him for a change. Their arguments were getting old quickly and were a painful reminder as to why he and Dean would never be anything more than just partners who fucked on occasion. No matter how much his gut twisted in on itself when Castiel looked at Dean and his irresistible smile and stupid freckles.

Dean huffed, annoyed. “If we break into his apartment—”

“We? There's no we in this, Dean,” Castiel cut him off immediately. “I'm going alone.”

“You fucker. That's as good as suicide,” Dean shouted, a hand curling on the front of Castiel's shirt. “You want to put your head in the lion’s mouth and do it by yourself?”

Castiel grabbed Dean's hand, but instead of pushing it away he squeezed, trying to make Dean understand. “Dean, I can't take you with me.”

“Bullshit,” Dean protested. “You need me as backup. How are you even going to break into his apartment? Do you know how to pick locks?”

Castiel hesitated. “I- I admit I haven't thought about that.” Then, resolve hardened, he continued, not letting Dean use this weakness in his plan to change his mind. “It's not like you'll be better at it in your current state. Just lifting your head too fast makes you nauseous. And you don't really believe that you can pick a lock like that.”

“I can try,” Dean scoffed.

“And you’ll fail,” Castiel insisted. “Or worse, you’ll collapse in the middle of Crowley’s apartment. You’re hurt.”

Dean’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his shoulders sagged with defeat.

“Dean, I just want you to be safe,” Castiel said softly, this time giving into the desire to comfort him. He cupped his face.

“And you think I don’t care?” Dean asked, voice trembling. “You think I can just sit here and wait while you put your life on the line? What if something happens to you?”

Castiel bit the inside of his lip. “Nothing will happen to me,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t a promise he could make. Still, he couldn’t help the fluttering of his heart when he thought of Dean being protective of him. “I’ll make sure Crowley isn’t at home, and I’ll try not to leave any evidence behind. I’m sure I can sneak in without any of his neighbours seeing me either.”

“You’ll be careful,” Dean demanded. “And you won’t even try to break in unless you’re absolutely sure Crowley is nowhere near his apartment.”

“Of course,” Castiel agreed easily.

Dean used the hold on Castiel’s shirt to pull him closer and crush their mouths together. Castiel had kissed Dean before, but the heat rising in his throat was burning as hot and bright as ever, leaving him breathless. He let Dean lick inside his mouth, his lips insistent and urgent against Castiel’s. And then it was over. Dean pulled away, leaving Castiel light-headed. “Good,” he said, resting their foreheads together. “Now get me my tools, and I’ll teach you how to pick a lock.”

According to Dean it would normally take Castiel about a week to become proficient. It was how long he claimed it had taken him as a teenager—Dean didn’t offer an explanation as to why he’d acquired that skill in the first place and Castiel didn’t ask. But they didn’t have a whole week. They barely had a couple of hours.

They worked on the lock Dean used for his duffel bag first, then moved to the lock on the bathroom door. Castiel had never guessed that staying in an old hotel that hadn’t upgraded to electronic locks yet would be the perfect place to learn how to pick locks, but he was glad to have that advantage anyway. Dean demonstrated for him first with a lot of cursing and trying, hands unsteady and fumbling. At the very least it convinced him once and for all that he really wouldn’t be much help to Castiel in his condition. In the end Dean sank to his knees next to Castiel, instructing him only while Castiel worked on the lock. It was not as easy as the movies made it out to be, nor as fast as Dean had been every time Castiel had seen him picking a lock. 

About an hour and a half later Castiel had the basics down, and Dean was confident he’d manage to open Crowley’s door if he hadn’t changed the lock to a more secure one than the standard you find in apartments these days. By then, Castiel had managed to pick their hotel’s door about five times, making better time with each try.

“Just don’t try for longer than five minutes, or you risk getting caught,” Dean advised, as Castiel was putting on his trench coat. “And don’t touch anything in there.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I think I know what not to do when I’m trespassing.”

“Be careful,” Dean insisted. “And you call me as soon as you get out of there.”

Castiel nodded, doing his usual pat down. “And you make sure you shoot anyone that comes through that door that isn’t me.”

Dean blinked. “I don’t have a gun, remember?”

“Fine, throw a chair at them. I’m sure you can come up with something.”

***

They didn’t have much time. By Castiel’s calculations, if Crowley clocked out when his shift ended, he had about four hours before he’d be back home. 

He drove by the police department first, to make sure that Crowley wasn’t in his apartment, but he couldn’t see his silver Audi parked anywhere near there. Though that didn’t mean that Crowley wasn’t at the station. He could have parked in the underground parking. He could be out on a call for all Castiel knew. In any case, coming here first had been a waste of time.

Finding Crowley’s apartment was easy. His address had been in the file Charlie had sent him, complete with floor and apartment number. Castiel wanted to park across the street, to be able to make a quick escape if things went south, but in the end caution won, and he left the car about a block away, where no one would notice or be able to identify the car later.

He stood in the corner watching the windows of the apartment he guessed belonged to Crowley. The curtains were drawn closed, but there was no movement he could make out. No movement in any of the windows in the building actually, except for a woman who was washing dishes in one of the lower floors. When the woman turned to head further into her house, Castiel took the chance and darted to the entrance. His heart was beating a hundred miles per hour, but the thought that at this hour most people should be at work helped him calm down a little.

He took the stairs to the fourth floor, and exhaled in relief when he stood in front of the old apartment door without having met someone. Keeping his ears open for any movement from the other apartments—though he was pretty sure they were all empty at this time of day—he kneeled in front of the door. Dean had been right, it was just a standard lock. It took him a little more than five minutes, but he got it open in the end, and he stepped into Crowley’s apartment. He closed the door behind him silently, then straightened up and surveyed his surroundings.

It wasn’t a large apartment. The front door led straight to the living room, with the kitchen to the right, separated by a kitchen island that probably also doubled as a dining table. In the back of the room there were three doors.

He didn’t have to be careful someone might see him through the windows, so Castiel took his time going around the living room. Crowley seemed to have a love for books, especially for criminal novels and legal thrillers, judging from the two large bookcases that were dominating the space. There was a table in the corner serving as a bar, with numerous bottles of whiskey resting there, along with two heavy, crystal glasses. But there were no pictures on the walls. Only one of Crowley in his work uniform propped against the books. No family or friends that Castiel could see.

Deciding that he wasn’t going to find any evidence in the living room or the kitchen, Castiel moved towards the three closed doors. The first one led to a bathroom, and a small black cat ran out when Castiel opened it. It took him a good ten minutes to coax the cat to come out from under the couch where she’d hidden herself and put her back in the bathroom. 

The second door led to the bedroom, but a quick inspection of the place and Crowley’s wardrobe later, and it became apparent that this room was a lost cause, too.

Castiel moved to the third room, keeping his hopes low. And then he opened the door.

The third room was Crowley’s office. Where the rest of the house felt almost impersonal and empty, this room was full to the brim, with pictures on the walls, notes on every available surface, papers and newspapers flooding the large wooden desk. It was clearly the room Crowley spent most of his time in. 

The whole wall behind the desk was used as a bulletin board, and as far as Castiel could see, it resembled the wall they had back in the office. A large map took up most of the space, with pictures pinned all over the place, blue tape connecting some of them together, and red tape connecting pictures to locations on the map.  To the right, there were pictures of all the agents working on the tri-state murder case, both dead and alive. 

Castiel’s breath got caught in his throat. He took his phone out and started taking pictures of everything. Then he turned his attention to the mess on the desk. He was sure there was some method to Crowley’s madness, but he didn’t have the patience or the time to understand it. He started searching through the papers blindly.

There were police reports from every crime scene Crowley had been in, pictures, notes with questions and lists of witnesses with some of the names crossed out. Among the case files, he found newspaper clippings that talked about the murders and underneath a folder that had the words Duke Anderson printed on top, he found a black, leather bound notebook.

Castiel dove right in, opening the notebook to a random page in the middle. There were dates and locations noted inside, each entry paired with the name of an agent. Every agent on their team was listed there, as well as some people from the forensics team and even the coroner and his assistant had a couple of entries under their name. Agents Day and Delacruz were absent, but judging from the dates he was seeing, he thought Crowley hadn’t started writing all that stuff down until after they’d been murdered. Hell, probably after the attempt on Castiel’s life as well. 

He found a part that had his own name on top, along with Dean’s. It was about the day of Annie Hawkins’ murder and described exactly what they’d done from the moment they’d left the crime scene. Crowley didn’t seem to know about the tunnels, or that Dean and Castiel had been down there, and his notes ended with  _ Returned to hotel for the night. _

So Crowley had really been following them all that time. And not just them, but other agents on their team, too. At least Dean and Castiel had been lucky Crowley hadn’t stuck around to see them leaving the hotel after finding Castiel’s room trashed. 

From what Castiel was reading, Crowley hadn’t spent long keeping an eye on the agents working the case. An hour for each of them at most. He probably hadn’t had time for more than that between working, caring for a cat and getting some sleep himself. 

He turned to the first pages of the notebook. They were filled with theories and questions, notes about following up leads and witnesses. The dates matched the second murder the police had linked to the tri-state killer, long before the FBI had gotten involved. He skimmed through the rest of the pages, pausing to read a couple of entries in more detail here and there, but it was evident he’d been wrong. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled. 

This was not the secret lair of a killer. This was the secret lair of a cop obsessed with his case. A cop that had worked himself to the bone chasing every possible lead he could get his hands on. From the things Castiel had read it was evident Crowley wasn’t stalking agents to kill them, but to try and see if any of them might be the killer. Unfortunately for both Castiel and Crowley, either the killer wasn’t someone from the FBI or was too careful for Crowley to catch him in the act. Castiel was inclined to bet on the latter.

Cursing, he closed the notebook and tried to rearrange everything as he’d found it. Then he turned back to the wall. The map was almost completely lost under the papers and photos, but there was a part still visible, circled in red.  There, on the map, Crowley had tried to find a connection between the location of the murder scenes. Lines had been drawn and erased, time and time again. It looked as if Crowley had tried to find a connection between the locations of the first set of murders, but those were too random. Then he’d tried with the second set, that of the murdered agents, but without knowing about the tunnels, there was no way to go much further. Connecting both sets obviously hadn’t worked out. But Crowley had singled out a couple of blocks. The paths the killer would have taken to move his victims to their murder scenes probably. If Castiel’s sense of direction was to be trusted, they matched the path he and Dean had walked down in the tunnels.

It was good work, Castiel had to give Crowley that. He’d gone pretty far with his investigation. Then he noticed something scrawled in the edge of the red circle. He stepped closer, squinting to make out the spidery handwritting.

_ Is his base somewhere in here? _

It’d make sense, Castiel thought. The killer had made sure to use only stuff he found in the victims’ houses at first, like killing them with knives from their kitchen, but after he started targeting agents, things had become more complicated. Even if he wasn’t knocking them out with chloroform he still had to have ropes and chains at hand. He imagined he’d need somewhere to store these, and keeping them at home wasn’t a smart choice. At least not for someone like their killer. 

Castiel traced his fingers on the map. 

But maybe down in the tunnels…

***

Castiel drove back to their hotel deep in thought. So Crowley was innocent after all. He felt a little bad for breaking into his place now—and leaving the door unlocked when he’d left—but at least this whole thing hadn’t been for nothing. Castiel now believed that there had to be some place down in the tunnels that the killer frequented, some place where they could find evidence. 

He thought about that, and whether or not they could actually trust Bass and Benny now that they didn’t have a prime suspect again as he parked the car and returned to their room. They still had to report Dean’s gun as missing, but hopefully they could push for him to get a new one, and by then maybe Dean would be well enough to try searching for their killer’s hideout.

Castiel opened the door and paused.

The room was empty.

“Dean?” Castiel called out, drawing his gun. The silence that came back as an answer washed over him like a cold shower. He nudged the bathroom door open, but it was empty, too.

There was nobody in the room.

Castiel looked around him, a sense of foreboding settling heavy in his belly. Dean wouldn’t have left without calling him, not unless something important had happened. There were no signs of struggle. Everything looked just like when Castiel had left, except Dean’s shoes, phone and jacket were missing. And—

There was a white box wrapped in blue ribbon on one of the beds. 

Castiel observed the box—the gift—warily. For all he knew it could have been a bomb. He crossed the room and opened it all the same. 

Castiel almost vomited, dropping the box on the floor. Two eyeballs rolled out on the carpet, their brown shade too painfully familiar to be confused for anybody else’s. 

“Jesus Christ,” Castiel said, taking a couple of steps back. He covered his mouth with the back of his palm, trying to will his stomach to settle down and not get sick all over the crime scene.

He had to call this in. The killer had been in their room, and he’d left Pamela Barnes’ eyes as a present for them. Dean was missing for fuck’s sake. The killer probably had him. 

Castiel froze. He looked around him again, willing himself to calm down and think this through. No sign of struggle—Dean had left willingly. And there was only one person Dean would trust enough to follow at this point except for Castiel.


	9. Like old times

Dean Winchester

Dean groaned, trying to pull himself out of the darkness. He was awake, but his mouth tasted funny, and his brain was covered in fuzzy cotton. Everything felt heavy; his tongue, his legs, his eyelids. He shook his head, eyes blinking open, and immediately closing again at the attack of the harsh light.

Slowly, the memory came back to him. The knock on the door, the car, the water bottle. Everything was jumbled together, broken pieces that he struggled to put back together, refusing to accept the conclusion he reached again and again. 

A gentle palm on his forehead pushed his head back. “Are you awake, brother?”

Dean's stomach dropped, his heart missing a beat. This wasn't a mistake, and it wasn't a game his groggy brain was playing on him. He forced his eyes open and looked up at the figure blurred by the light behind him. 

Benny Lafitte looked down at him.

Shit. 

Dean couldn't believe this was happening. Benny was one of the good guys. He was his friend. It was why Dean hadn't questioned him when he'd shown up at the hotel saying Castiel had been hurt and that he'd sent Benny to get Dean. It was why Dean had gone with him, and why he hadn't thought twice about accepting the water he had offered him. Water that had been drugged apparently.  At least Dean wouldn’t have to wait for lab results to come in to figure out how the unsub subdued all the agents he’d killed. Now he had first hand experience.

No, not the unsub.  _ Benny, _ he corrected himself, the thought making his stomach churn.

Benny's hand fell away from his head as he stepped back, letting Dean take in the rest of his surroundings. Stone walls covered in graffiti, water dripping from rusty pipes, a yellow light that was not as bright as he'd first thought now that his eyes were adjusting. He was bound to a chair, hands behind his back, feet apart. Definitely not Benny's apartment. A chill ran up Dean's arms, raising goosebumps on its way.

“Benny,” he said weakly.

From a corner, Benny dragged another chair in front of Dean, placing it with its back to him. He straddled it backwards, arms resting on the back. The gun in his hand—Dean's Colt—didn't go unnoticed. Hell, Benny wasn't even trying to hide it. “Take it easy. You might be disoriented for a couple of hours.”

“You drugged me,” Dean accused, feeling nauseous. It could be from the shock, but most likely it was from whatever drug Benny had given him. Dean couldn't imagine it had a good reaction with his concussion.

Regret flashed across Benny's face, but it was gone in an instant, his face hardening again. “I gave you as small a dose as I could. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“And yet here I am, tied up and hurt from when you threw me against a wall,” Dean growled, flexing his muscles against the ropes restraining him. They were too tight to wiggle himself out of them. “I assume it was you since you have my gun.”

Benny held the gun up, almost surprised to see it in his hand. “You were never supposed to know about the tunnels,” he said. It was a crappy excuse in Dean's opinion. “But when you came after me, I realized it was a good chance to get you out, Dean. Admittedly I failed, but I realised that I could still get to you if I was patient. And when I saw Novak leaving from the hotel alone...”

The end of his sentence hung between them, unsaid. Benny had known Dean would trust him without a second guess and had used that against him. He’d used that to "get Dean out".

Dean's throat felt raw. He had to force the words out. “Out of what?”

“Out of this rotten system,” Benny replied simply.

Dean's heart ached. He wished he could close his eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend Benny was still the guy that sang Adele songs off key when he was drunk, the guy that teased Dean for not finding someone to settle down with, the guy that was as close to him as only Sam and Adam were. But the reality was cruel and unforgiving, and Dean had probably only a few hours maximum left to live. 

“You’re the only one who can understand, Dean,” Benny continued.

Dean's eyes snapped open. “Understand? Understand what exactly? You killed all those people, Benny,” Dean said, feeling dizzy with the rush of adrenaline and nauseous with the drugs still in his blood. “You killed agents. Good agents. Mark Day, Pete Delacruz, Annie Hawkins, Pamela Barnes,” he recited. “You tried to kill Cas.”

Benny shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. I really am. I thought Novak was in the way back then, but he’s one of the good ones. I'm glad you were there to save him.”

All those times Benny had tried to get Dean and Castiel separated, the attempt against Castiel that didn’t fit with the MO, they all made sense now. Benny was trying to kill Dean’s partner without Dean realizing it.

“God, Benny. Why?” Dean asked, feeling the betrayal like a sharp knife between his ribs. “Why did you kill all those people?”

“Andrea,” Benny answered. Like that was the only thing Dean needed to know.

In a way it  _ was _ the only thing Dean needed to know. He'd known his friend had been crushed after losing his wife, he'd known he'd almost given up after his accident. He just didn't know how bad it really was.

“Is this some kind of revenge? Benny, she's gone, and nothing you do is going to bring her back.”

Benny's hold on the back of the chair tightened, his jaw clenching. “I had my revenge, Dean. I'm done with that.” He must have recognized Dean's confusion, or maybe he was just in a mood to talk, because Benny continued without being prompted. “I found who killed her.”

“How?” Dean gasped. The police investigation back then hadn't found any evidence to lead them to suspects. Dean had been there with Benny through months of grief and unanswered questions. How had Benny found the killer without any leads?

“I think it was fate,” Benny answered, eyes faraway as he got lost in another time and place, a memory Dean couldn’t know about. “I was alone and broken. And then one day I saw her. She was wearing Andrea’s watch.”

Dean could taste bile in the back of his throat. This must have happened after his car accident. After Dean had left, and Benny had to take time off to let his crushed body heal. “You killed some poor girl because she had the same watch as Andrea?”

Benny frowned at him. “Of course not, I'm not crazy. I followed her. I learned her routine, I learned her name, I learned everything I could about her life. She was an addict, Dean, did you know that? Andrea died because a junkie needed her fix.”

“A watch isn’t evidence, Benny.”

“But the inscription on the watch is,” Benny insisted. He waved the hand he was holding the gun with. “I bought that watch, and I had our wedding date written at the side, and that random, dirty woman was walking around with that watch on her wrist. Of course, I couldn't be sure it was her and not her boyfriend. But it's okay, I left her body as a present to him after I killed her.”

“Rose Beaker.” The unsolved murder case Castiel had found. They’d been right, it was the same killer. Dean had never regretted being right before. 

“You found her,” Benny said, sounding oddly pleased.

“Cas did,” Dean spat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around everything Benny had told him. How twisted everything had become inside him, how the pain had taken everything from him. Dean shouldn’t have left New York after Benny’s accident. He should have refused that undercover case, he should have stuck around and helped him with the recovery. Maybe he could’ve prevented all these.

“Of course he did. He's smart like that,” Benny smiled, and Dean’s gut clenched painfully with panic. The idea of Castiel being the next name on the list to be crossed off hurt more than his own impending death.

“Stay away from him.”

Benny’s eyes widened. “I don't want to hurt him anymore.”

“Not anymore?” Dean repeated, relief and dread coiling in a tight knot inside him.

“He’s good,” Benny said again. “He’s the only one who could truly ‘see me’, to use his words. He was right. At first I chose people that were a danger to society, criminals and thugs. Then I realized they aren't the true problem. The true problem is everyone that lets them get away with everything. Officers that look the other way, detectives that are incompetent, agents that can't even catch a serial killer. Novak figured everything out, so he gets to live.”

“But the others had to die,” Dean finished for him. 

“They were as much at fault as the criminals they couldn’t stop, Dean. You must understand,” Benny pleaded with him. 

Dean’s heart shattered into a million pieces. Benny had been a good guy. He’d fought a fucking war for God’s sake, and he’d tracked down criminals half his life. How did everything come to this?

Dean gazed around him, at the garbage in the corners, at the tunnel fading into darkness to his right. Maybe he could still talk some sense into him, convince him to turn himself in, get help. “You don’t have to do this, Benny. Let me help you.”

“But you’ve already helped me, brother,” Benny said. “I was so happy when I learned you’d been assigned this case. I’d missed working with you. I only wish you’d given me some time to explain everything. I tried to take Novak out fast, though that was a mistake, I see that now. But it would have given me the opportunity to show you that what I do is good. I wish you hadn’t found the tunnels, I wouldn’t have had to attack you then.”

Dean pressed his lips together. “How did _you_ find the tunnels?”

“Me? Oh, I was reviewing a drug case. They were using the tunnels as a warehouse before they got busted. But when I did a little more research and realised the potential of this place,” Benny looked around him, grinning. “I couldn’t pass up the chance.”

“All those locked doors, how did you get past them? I had to pick the locks on at least two of them.”

Benny shrugged. “I’m good with my hands. Changing a few locks wasn’t a big deal.”

“You’ve been planning this for a long time,” Dean gasped, feeling sick to his stomach. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining Benny down in the tunnels, working in the dark, carefully putting together all the small details he needed for his sick plan to work.

“I have,” Benny admitted without a hint of shame in his voice. “I thought if the FBI could catch me, then so be it. At least I’d know I could trust them to do their job from time to time. If they couldn’t… But hey, at least this case brought us back together. Like old times.”

A nagging question that Dean had been pushing away for a long time, now came unbidden forward. “And what about me? Are you going to kill me?”

Benny’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Dean, I already told you I’d never hurt you. I’m going to set you free.”

“Forgive me for not seeing how setting me free isn’t a euphemism for murder,” Dean said drily.

“Free from the FBI.” Benny leaned forward, eyes never leaving Dean's. “You’re too good for them, Dean, there's so much you can do to help people. I don't want you dead, I want you to join me. We can be partners again. Let Novak work within this corrupted system, but we- we’re above that. We understand each other.”

Benny's words were like a punch to the throat, cutting Dean's breath off violently. “You think Cas won't figure you out? You think he won't come after you?”

There was no doubt in his mind that Castiel would move heaven and earth to get to him. He was good like that. Loyal to a fault, even when his partner was an idiot like Dean. Castiel had stuck with him despite Dean making his life miserable and antagonizing him at every turn, and he’d taken care of him tirelessly throughout their brief time together, sometimes without Dean even realizing it.

Benny shrugged. “Ι know he will, especially after the gift I left for him. Let him try.”

Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. His fingers were going numb from the tight rope around his wrists, but the rest of his body was numb for completely different reasons. “Your whole plan, driving into the sunset together, killing people, cleansing societies,” Dean said, voice strained. “What if I refuse?”

Benny's face remained a stony expression of calm. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were,” he said.

Dean could easily read between the lines. He just didn't want to believe they'd actually reached this point, this moment of no return, where the only way out was with one of them dead. Which was why he asked, “Are you threatening me?”

Benny didn't move, but his finger went to rest against the gun’s trigger. “I’m just stating facts.”

***

Castiel Novak

Castiel cursed at himself for losing precious time. As soon as he’d figured out that only Benny Lafitte could have been in their hotel room to leave Pamela’s eyes without Dean putting up a fight, he’d done what he should have done a long time ago: He’d called Aaron Bass.

He had explained the situation as quickly as possible, asking Aaron to call a search team. He had insisted Dean was in danger, and they had to get to him as soon as possible if they wanted to find him alive.

Bass hadn’t been very useful. For one, he wanted to send a team to their hotel to take a look at the "present" Benny had left behind, and then he’d said Castiel didn’t have any conclusive evidence on Benny, so the best he could do was to send a team by his apartment to check on him.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, Novak,” he had said, “but until we have hard evidence my hands are tied.”

Benny Lafitte wasn’t an idiot, Castiel knew that. He wouldn’t have taken Dean back to his apartment. No, chances were Benny had Dean somewhere underground, had taken him to one of the many buildings he’d carefully selected and was now preparing to kill him.

At least Bass had agreed that the tunnels were a lead they could use. He’d asked Castiel to send him the maps, and he’d promised he’d send a team down there as soon as possible. 

But that wasn’t soon enough for Castiel. And probably it wouldn’t be soon enough for Dean either.

Castiel had been gone from their room less than three hours. Depending on when Benny had gone to Dean and how much convincing it had taken for Dean to follow him, he guessed he didn’t have much time in his hands to save Dean. He had to act now.

Against Bass’ orders, he left the hotel, eyes in a box be damned, and found the closest entrance to the tunnels on the maps. He’d already ruled out any manholes, because if Benny had drugged Dean it would’ve been impossible to carry him down through there. 

The door he found at the side of a bridge had been locked from the inside, but Castiel could feel it budge when he pressed his hand against it and pushed. He braced himself for the impact, then threw his weight against the door. It groaned and complained but remained intact. Castiel hit it again and again, until finally something cracked. Breathless with agony and relief, Castiel threw himself against the door once more and this time the door gave way, and Castiel landed in an undignified heap on the ground.

Without wasting any time, he pushed himself up, using his phone’s light to search the walls around him for a sign, a symbol, anything.

There!

Just a bit ahead was a circle with a straight line on top of it.  _ Go straight ahead,  _ it said, and Castiel didn’t hesitate to follow it. He walked through the tunnels, following the symbols he found on the way. All he could do was keep repeating to himself,  _ you’ll find him  _ and _ he’s down here somewhere, he has to be,  _ and _ help is on the way.  _ He couldn’t think of anything else. He didn’t even dare consider another option. Dean had to be down there, and Castiel had to find him and save him before Benny had the chance to kill him. He had to hurry up.

The symbols led him deeper and deeper, through tunnels that were completely dark, and some that still had the ancient lights buzzing above his head, through passages with walls covered in graffiti and parts where there was no ground not covered in muddy puddles. Castiel pressed on.

_ Come on, come on _ , he kept muttering.  _ He’s somewhere down here for sure. _

He reached a crossroads. In the column in the middle he found three symbols. The first one he knew, it meant go right, but the other two… He should have freshened up his knowledge of hobo glyphs. He was pretty sure the second one had something to do with police, but not jail, something else. Maybe police office, and an arrow right underneath pointing to the left.

Castiel licked his lips.

He’d studied the maps very carefully, and as far as he could remember there were no entrances to the FBI field office, or a police station, though a couple of them did run pretty close underneath. And yet somehow he doubted that was what the symbol really meant. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown everything else out—the panic, the worry, the bright, tingly feeling inside him every time he thought of Dean—and focused on the case and everything he knew.

Benny was just another unsub. Castiel had studied him, he'd profiled him. He probably had a hideout somewhere down here, easily accessible from all the murder sites but still far enough away to be safe from detection. Benny thought he was serving justice to criminals. He saw himself as above the law, no, he thought he was the law. 

Maybe Castiel was reaching. But Benny had set up this elaborate plan, was it really so ludicrous to think he'd use a hobo sign as a metaphor? Especially when there was no symbol for "serial killer’s lair" in hobo. 

Castiel turned left.

This part of the tunnel had no lights, except very far in the distance and around the corner. It was too faint to help Castiel see what was around him, but Castiel chased it, sure that he was reaching his goal. He was almost to the corner when he heard a low voice.

“—answer, Dean,” Benny was saying.

Castiel’s breath got caught in his throat. He had been right.

“Benny, untie me, and we can talk. You don't have to do this.” Dean's voice was small and tired, but he was alive. Castiel held his weapon steady in both hands, one finger ready on the trigger. He pressed himself against the wall, just a few inches from where the tunnel turned, from where Dean and Benny were. They were still talking, but the words were lost to Castiel's heartbeat pounding like a drum inside his ears. The only thing that registered was Dean's pleading tone.

He took a steadying breath. He wasn’t in Florida. Uriel was far away, and Benny was a co-worker, but more importantly he was Dean's best friend, and Castiel had to step in or Benny would kill him. Castiel wouldn't stand around and watch while it happened, no matter how much the phantom pain low in his belly throbbed.

He turned into the passageway, gun already raised. “FBI,” he shouted. “Put your hands up.”

Benny already had his gun raised and pointing at him, face tight. “Novak. I didn't expect you down here so fast,” he said, at the same time Dean uttered, “Cas.”

Castiel had only eyes for Dean, pale and tied to a chair but otherwise unharmed and very much alive.

“Your gift didn't distract me as much as you hoped to, I'm sure,” Castiel answered, his hand steady, the storm inside him finally silent. 

“I shouldn't be surprised. You saw what nobody else could. And I still underestimated you. That's on me,” Benny said, cocking his head to the side, sizing Castiel up.

He had the advantage here. He had Dean as a hostage, and he knew that Castiel wouldn't risk his partner’s life by firing first. And if he knew that Dean was so much more than just a partner they were really screwed.

“Benny, don't,” Dean tried, struggling against the ropes.

“Walk away now, Castiel, and you get to live,” Benny offered.

“And let you kill Dean?”

Benny raised an eyebrow. “Dean's coming with me. Now walk away.”

Castiel gritted his teeth. He had to get Benny away from Dean, he had to get him somewhere he didn't have a clear shot at him. He had to keep him talking, distract him. “How did you even find him in the hotel?”

“I knew it was the first place Dean would think of. After I searched both your rooms and realized the only reason for you two to go back there was to get your things, there was only one place Dean would go to. I knew you were there from the second night. You’d be surprised what kind of information twenty bucks and a picture can get you from the receptionist of such a filthy place.”

Castiel didn't know why Benny was in a chatty mood, but Castiel was determined to use it to his advantage. As long as Benny wasn't in any hurry to kill Dean and Castiel they still had a chance to make it out without casualties. If one of them twitched even slightly, at least two of them would be dead in the next few seconds. Castiel only hoped he could get Benny before he turned his gun towards Dean.

Dean swallowed audibly. He glanced at Castiel before turning to his old partner. “Benny, you don’t have to do this. You still have a choice.”

Benny’s face remained unchanged. “I’ve already made my choice. Now it’s time for you to do the same,” he said.

“Benny,” Dean tried, desperation dripping from that one word. “Listen to me. We can get you help.”

Completely ignoring Dean’s pleas, Benny remained focused on Castiel. They stood across from each other, guns raised. The atmosphere crackled with tension. “I assume you’re not going to go,” Benny said.  With a swift movement he raised his gun higher, pointing to the ceiling. 

Caught by surprise, Castiel hesitated for a single second, but it was enough. 

The gunshot echoed through the tunnels. Simultaneously, the light above them exploded, followed by a rain of sparks and broken glass. And the world was plunged into darkness. 

“Cas,” Dean shouted.

On instinct, Castiel ducked to the side, at the same time a second deafening gunshot filled the darkness. Castiel crashed into the wall to his left, pain blooming from his side. Ears ringing, he ignored the sharp burn and pressed forward. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t fire his gun without being sure he’d hit Benny and not Dean. But Benny couldn’t see him either.

Castiel tucked himself close to the wall. He controlled his breathing and tried to listen. There was water dripping to his right. Dean’s harsh breaths. The whoosh of a swift movement somewhere ahead of him. 

Castiel charged forward. He hit Benny with all his body weight, sending both of them to the ground with a startled cry. But Benny wasn’t about to give up. He was instantly on Castiel, the two men struggling, both trying to overpower the other and keep the other’s gun away from them.

“Cas! Benny, stop this. This is not you,” Dean tried, his voice barely audible over the sound of their fighting. 

“I didn’t want to kill you, Novak,” Benny groaned, swinging his fist out. It caught Castiel on the side of his jaw, startling him and knocking him off balance. Benny took the chance and threw Castiel off him. His gun was knocked away from his hand, and Benny was now on top of him.

“Benny, listen to me.” Dean was shouting at the top of his lungs now. “This isn’t who you are.”

Castiel fought to shake Benny off with every ounce of strength inside him. The back of a gun landed on his forehead, knocking his head back. Castiel groaned, seeing stars behind his closed eyelids. He felt the gun turning to point at him more than he saw the shadow of it. 

“Do you think this is what Andrea would have wanted?” Dean yelled, and Benny froze. 

Then he was off Castiel, and Castiel was still trying to scramble to his feet when he heard Benny’s voice moving away, the outline of his broad shoulders still barely discernible through the blackness as he turned towards Dean.

“You have no idea what Andrea would have wanted,” he roared. The gunshot cracked into the air, loud as thunder, but all Castiel could hear was Dean’s surprised grunt as the bullet found its target.

The world slowed down. 

Dean was hurt.

Pushing himself up with newfound strength, Castiel threw himself on Benny again. They were rolling on the ground, fighting viciously. Castiel punched Benny with everything he got, not caring about the way the man was fighting back. He felt Benny’s hand turning, the gun searching for him. He fumbled in the darkness, found Benny’s wrist and twisted. Everything had faded away. Everything but Dean’s ragged, pained breaths and the need to protect.

He pushed, and he twisted, and he pressed, and with a growl he heard the crack of Benny’s wrist snapping under the force. He grabbed the gun and pointed it underneath him. He pressed the trigger before he could process what was happening.

Benny went limp under him before the echo of the gunshot had faded.

“Cas?” Dean whimpered, panting.

“Dean, it’s okay.” Castiel fell away from Benny’s body, head spinning. With shaky hands he dropped the gun and found his phone, bringing some light back to the tunnel. “It’s okay,” he mumbled, faltering towards the chair Dean was tied on.

There was blood oozing from Dean’s shoulder, but when Castiel groped around the wound while Dean groaned in pain, he could feel an exit wound in the back of his shoulder, too. At least it was a clean path right through.

“Come on, we have to get you out of here,” he said, kneeling behind Dean and working the ropes free. 

“You—did he get you?” Dean asked. 

Castiel brought a hand to his side, the throbbing burn half forgotten until now, but with the adrenaline drop it was coming back stronger with every passing second. The bullet had just grazed him, but it still hurt like a bitch. It wasn’t his number one priority right now, though. Dean was. “I’m fine. Come on, get up.”

Dean allowed Castiel to pull him to his feet and put an arm around his shoulders. “Benny—he—is he…?” he trailed off, turning his head to search his old partner’s body for any sign of life. 

Castiel glanced at the red stain blossoming right in the middle of Benny’s chest, his vacant eyes staring at somewhere past them. “We can’t help him now,” he said, tightening his hold on Dean. They needed to get out of there. They had to get Dean to help. They had to get him to a hospital.

Castiel couldn’t be sure where they were going. He’d long since forgotten anything about maps and hobo glyphs and the entrance he’d used. The only thing he could think about was finding an exit as close to them as possible and calling an ambulance. 

They hobbled to the nearest staircase they could find. It took almost all of Castiel’s strength to carry both himself and Dean up. He leaned Dean against the wall, acutely aware of how with each second ticking by Dean was losing more and more blood, and he could barely support his own weight. 

He pushed the door, but there was no give. He grabbed the handle and rattled it. No change. The door was locked. “For fuck’s sake,” he cursed, hitting his fist against the metal door, frustrated.

“Cas, we have to find another way,” Dean said. He was pale and trembling. They were losing too much time. 

Castiel grabbed him and hauled him up again. They went back down to the tunnels. Castiel was determined to find another exit. He was going to get them out of there. He wasn’t going to let Dean die in the darkness. They limped down the tunnels towards the next staircase, but Dean was becoming heavier and heavier with each step, until finally Castiel was struggling to drag him along.

“Cas,” he uttered, before he collapsed on the ground, Castiel dropping to his knees next to him. 

“No, Dean, don’t give up now,” Castiel pleaded. 

“I don’t think—” Dean mumbled, shaking his head. “Cas, I can’t.”

“You just hang in there.” Castiel quickly removed his trench coat and balled it up, pressing it down on Dean’s wound. This wasn’t happening, it wasn’t happening. “We’re going to get out of here, do you hear me?”

Castiel cried out frustrated, pressing harder down on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s eyes were half closed, lips barely moving around words that never made it past his teeth. “Dean, do you hear me? Stay with me! Dean!” Castiel shouted, growing more and more desperate, hoping a miracle would happen, but the only answer was the echo of his own shouting.

No. It couldn’t be his own shouting. It was different. Raised voices, coming their way.

“Down here,” Castiel yelled, desperately. “Man down. We’re here.” He kept shouting, until his throat felt raw, but the voices were closer now, and he could almost hear the sound of footsteps.

The tunnel was swarmed with men in black uniforms, rifles pointing at Castiel, the lights fixed to the end of them almost blinding him. “FBI!” the man in the front shouted. “Identify yourself.”

“Get back! Get back, these are my men!”

Pushing through the group to get to Castiel and Dean, Aaron Bass appeared, gun in hand and bullet proof vest around his torso. He dropped next to Dean, immediately assessing the situation, and pressed two fingers to Dean’s throat, searching for his pulse.

He turned to his men. “We need an ambulance. Find the nearest exit and one of you go ahead to call this in. I want three of you to help me carry Agent Winchester, the rest keep searching the area.” His voice was lower when he spoke to Castiel. “What happened?”

“Benny,” Castiel said, breathless. Three men were moving around them, trying to find the best way to carry Dean out of the tunnel. “I had to—he’s somewhere further down.”

Bass nodded. He signaled to the four men who were still clearing the tunnels to keep going. Then he pulled Castiel away from Dean as his men carefully picked him up, one of them taking over from Castiel and putting pressure on the wound.

“Come with me, I need you to—”

Castiel shrugged him off, his eyes stuck on Dean. “I’m going with Dean,” he declared.

“Novak, I need your statement, and I need you to tell me everything that happened. Winchester is in good hands now.”

Castiel spun around, furiously looking down at Bass. “I just shot Benny Lafitte. Either you’ll let me go with my partner or you arrest me because I’m going to shoot you in the fucking foot, too,” he declared, nostrils flaring. His patience was already stretched too thin, and he wasn’t going to let Bass boss him around. Not when Dean needed him. 

He took a threatening step forward, but winced when all his weight shifted to his hurt side. 

“Are you hurt, too?” Bass asked, patting Castiel down, his hands coming away wet with fresh blood. He stared down at his bloody palm for a stunned second, then he tightened his mouth and nodded. “Fine. You go with Winchester. But I’ll still need you later.”

Castiel didn’t wait to hear anything else. He immediately set out after the men carrying Dean. It took them less than five minutes to reach above ground, but an ambulance was already waiting for them, paramedics already rushing towards Dean, placing him on a stretcher. 

There were hands on Castiel. Someone was asking him if he was okay, pushing him towards the back of the ambulance, but Castiel could only feel his body shaking, could only hear the ringing in his ears. He followed them blindly, because they were taking him to Dean. 

They would be in a hospital soon. Dean still had a chance to make it. He only had to hold on a little longer.


	10. Don’t be a stranger

Castiel

Castiel woke up to bright, cold light and the steady beating of the machines keeping time with Dean’s heartbeat. He looked around him with bleary eyes, then everything came back to him—Dean disappearing from their hotel room, Castiel going after him, Benny.

Fuck, Benny.

He saw Dean staring at him from the bed, still pale and hollow faced from the blood loss, but his eyes were shining with amusement at Castiel falling asleep in a chair next to his hospital bed. Castiel couldn’t have asked for more at this point.

“Dude, you look like shit,” Dean drawled.

Running a hand over his face, Castiel said, “Says the man with a hole through his shoulder.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who’s been drooling on himself for the last couple of hours.”

Castiel checked his watch absently. With the back of his other hand, he wiped a hint of spit from the side of his face. “Have I been sleeping that long?”

Dean gave a half-jerk with one shoulder—the not-injured one—the closest he could manage to a shrug. “Don’t know. You were already sleeping when I woke up. A nurse came by to check my vitals, was all cooing and gushing about you.”

“Was she now?” Castiel asked, the hints of jealousy in Dean’s voice endlessly amusing to him. 

“Sure was,” Dean nodded, then made a circle with his finger near his temple. “She must be out of her mind. Calling you a sleeping angel and stuff. Did she even take a good look at you? You’re no angel. More like an asshole. Snoring asshole, too.”

Castiel hid his mouth behind the palm of his hand, pretending to scratch at his five-o'clock shadow but really covering up the smile that was tugging at the corner of his lips. If Dean had enough energy to be a pain in the ass, he was probably more or less alright—physically at least. “My snoring isn’t that bad.”

“Yeah? And how would you know? You slept through it,” Dean shot back with an annoyed huff, but he was only pretending.

“I distinctly remember you sleeping through me snoring right next to your ear,” Castiel said, eyebrows raised.

“Dude, that was right after some heavy exercise,” Dean said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Could have slept through the Russians invading us.”

“Heavy exercise,” Castiel said, tasting the words on his tongue. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“I could come up with a few more witty names to call  _ it.” _

“I’m sure you could,” Castiel agreed easily. He placed his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, and leaned forward to look at Dean, really look at him—the heavy set of his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, the fingers of his injured hand nervously rubbing the end of his blanket, then smoothing it over, then playing with it again. “How are you?”

Dean waved his good hand. “Me? Oh, great, just peachy. Yeah, I’m ready to run a marathon.” 

Castiel knew that Dean often used jokes and teasing as a defense mechanism when he wanted to pull away and hide his true feelings. Like he was doing now. “Dean,” he said softly. “I need you to talk to me.”

Dean turned to look at him, lips pressed in a thin line. Then, with a sigh, he said, “I don’t know. I mean one of my best friends just tried to kill me. How am I supposed to be?”

“He didn’t try to kill you,” Castiel corrected.

“Oh right. He only killed half our team, tried to kill  _ you _ , and then wanted me to become his partner in crime. Jump off a cliff hand in hand, murder people and bathe in their blood, the usual shit.” Dean paused for a second, then his frown deepened. His voice was soft, almost broken when he spoke. “He would have killed me too, eventually.”

“Benny was… he was broken, Dean,” Castiel said in a gentle voice. He hoped Dean didn’t blame himself for everything that had happened. He hoped he could see there wasn’t any way he could have known.

“I just—” Dean started. Took a deep breath. “I just wish he’d let me help him. Before everything got so ugly.”

Castiel shook his head. “Some people are beyond our help.”

“I feel… I feel like I just lost a hand,” Dean admitted. “He was like a brother to me. I—it hurts. It fucking hurts—what happened, what he did.”

For the first time in a long time, Castiel let the old feelings of betrayal he’d spent so long suppressing resurface inside him. The panic came after them, but it was not as bad now as it had been at the beginning. It was bearable. He would’ve given everything to protect Dean from feeling like that. But he’d failed. 

“I’m sorry. For what I did.” Killing Benny hadn’t been a choice, if anything it was the only path Castiel could have taken from the moment Benny had taken Dean from that hotel room. He still wished things could have been different. If only for Dean’s shake.

Dean eyes were hard when he said, “Benny was my friend, but if he’d gotten his way, you’d have been dead two days after we arrived here. I would’ve killed him myself then.”

Castiel was stunned into silence for a moment. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” Dean said. Then, “I mean, I never thought that I could raise a gun against him, but then again I never thought he’d shoot me.” He patted the injured shoulder, grimacing at the pain. “You’re my partner, Cas. Him touching a hair on your head? He wouldn’t have gotten away with it. It might have destroyed me, but I would’ve killed him.”

“I’m glad it was me then and not you,” Castiel said. And because Dean’s eyes were shining with the threat of tears, he added, “My old partner tried to kill me.”

Dean’s mouth fell half-open in surprise. “What?”

Castiel rested a hand over his lower belly, over a scar he knew Dean had noticed but never asked about. “Uriel and I, we were working undercover down in Miami. A drug case. Things got bad, and they tried to pull us out, but Uriel…” Castiel swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He’d turned on us. Said the money was too good to pass up.”

Dean made a soft noise in the back of his throat.

Castiel continued speaking. “He’d blown our cover, and he saw me as a loose end. Stabbed me right in the gut. You know it didn’t even hurt so much at first.” A snort escaped his lips. “It just felt cold. That’s what I remember, feeling cold. And then he left me there to die with my guts spilling out of me. I don’t even know how I got to the hospital. Logically, I know that our handlers must have found me and saved me, but I don’t—I don’t remember. There’s only sharp pain and blackness there when I try to think about it. I didn’t even realize Uriel had betrayed us until they told me at the hospital. He’d betrayed me.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean tried to twist his torso and reach for Castiel with his good hand, but that put pressure on his wound and made him wince with pain. Castiel moved to sit at the edge of the bed, and offered his hand to him, palm up. Dean took it, lacing their fingers together. “For what it’s worth, I’d kill that dickhead if I could.”

Castiel nodded, not trusting his voice to answer. He felt raw and exposed. He wanted to curl in a ball and hide for three weeks from everyone. He tightened his hand around Dean’s, hoping his confession would be of some comfort to him.

They sat in silence for a long while, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Dean’s breath burst out of him in a hot wave.

“So I guess they had to call Sammy, didn’t they?”

Castiel squeezed his hand. “When you were in surgery. I don’t know when the next flight from California is, but I imagine he’ll be here by tonight.”

Dean’s mouth twisted in a pained expression. “Shit. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.”

“Don’t be hard on your brother,” Castiel chastised him, thankful for the change in topic. “He’s worried about you.”

“I know, I know,” Dean sighed. “Still sucks though. Gonna lecture me all the way back to Washington. Hey, speaking of which, do you know when they’re letting me out?”

“Not really, no,” Castiel admitted. “Only thing they told me was that the bullet hadn’t hit any major arteries, and that you were lucky. You’ll probably make a full recovery in time and won’t even need follow-up surgery. And I had to annoy the doctor endlessly to get that out of him.”

“What because you’re not family?” Dean asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Huh. How did they let you stay with me, then?”

Castiel faced the other way, feeling a blush crawl up his neck. “I may have threatened a doctor and two nurses to let me,” he said. “But to be fair it was either letting me in here or throwing me out of the hospital, and I imagine throwing an FBI agent covered in blood out is not exactly a good idea.”

Dean observed Castiel, taking in his dishevelled appearance and still darkly stained clothes. “Most of it’s not even your blood.”

Castiel brought a finger in front of his lips and winked. “They don’t know that.”

Dean shook his head, biting back a smile. He turned his head to the side, eyes unfocused as he got lost in his thoughts again. The painkillers they were feeding him through all the tubes attached to him certainly weren’t helping. Castiel was content to let him doze for a while.

“I am a tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tough tough guy,” Dean hummed. “Halo round my head, too tough to die.”

Castiel frowned down at him, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Dean stared at him, eyes wide. He pulled his hand from Castiel’s hold to punch him in the chest. “Dude. Too tough to die.”

“Is that a song?” Castiel tried.

“Duh,” Dean exclaimed. “By the Ramones.”

“I’ll make sure to look it up.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless,” Dean groaned, but his face was soft and his hand gentle when it settled on Castiel’s elbow to give him a fond pat. “I have so many things to teach you.”

“Teach me?” Castiel wondered, cocking an eyebrow.

“Obviously, we can’t be partners if you don’t know the classics. Songs, movies, tv series. I’ll make a list.”

“We can’t be  _ partners?”  _ Castiel asked, deliberately putting emphasis on the last word.

Dean laughed. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”

“You’re in no condition to work or play for at least a few months,” Castiel pointed out, eyes falling on Dean’s injury.

Dean’s eyes darkened. He caught Castiel by the loose tie around his neck and pulled him closer, until their noses were almost touching. “Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll have you bent over my coffee table,” he promised in a low growl.

Castiel felt warmth curling in his belly. “You’ll be lucky if you get out of the hospital in that long.” There was a tight feeling inside his chest, and his lips felt dry. He licked his bottom lip and Dean’s eyes fell to follow the movement. 

“We’ll see about that,” Dean said. “I’m full of surprises.”

“That—” Castiel said, tugging his tie out of Dean’s hand and pushing himself upright again, “—is true. But at least for your brother’s sake, don’t push yourself.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

Castiel’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and for once, he didn’t want to check who it was. He took it out anyway. 

“Your mother?” Dean asked, carefully.

“No. Work.” Their time was up, apparently. Bass may have had his hands full with dealing with the mess Castiel had left behind down in the tunnels but now their little moment of reprieve was over. Castiel thought he should be thankful he’d been allowed to come to the hospital in the first place, but all he could muster was a mild irritation. 

He didn’t want to leave Dean here, broken and in pain, but he didn’t have a choice.

Dean touched the back of Castiel’s hand with two fingers. “Do you have to go?” He was disappointed, that was clear, but he was trying to hide it, and Castiel thought it better for them both if he just played along.

“Yeah. There are papers waiting for me to fill out, statements, reviews, the usual stuff. I have to change clothes, too.”

“But you’ll come visit again, right?” Dean asked, a hint of fear hidden in his tone.

“What, you’re afraid I’m gonna cut and run on you?” Castiel teased. 

Dean tilted his head to the side, in a silent  _ are you? _

“I’ll come visit as soon as I’m free,” Castiel said, seriously this time.

Dean’s whole body visibly relaxed. He rolled his shoulders back into the mattress, with only a slight pout at the pain. Finding his humor again, he said, “Good. You have to save me from Sammy.”

“Will do,” Castiel answered dryly. He got up, retrieved his trench coat and shrugged it on. The trench coat, like his suit underneath, was stained with both his and Dean’s blood. He hoped taking it to the dry cleaners would do the trick.

He hesitated only a second, searching Dean’s green eyes for a hint, then he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. He felt Dean smiling, then his hand found its way to Castiel’s neck to press him closer, tilt his head to the side and deepen the kiss for a brief moment. 

“I guess I’ll see you later,” Castiel said, breathless. It was embarrassing the kind of effect Dean had on him, even with such a small kiss.

Dean caught his hand as he was turning to leave. “Wait,” he said, and tugged him close to the bed again. He let go of Castiel’s hand long enough to rummage through the drawer of the side table, muttering  _ where did she put it? _ and  _ I know I saw it _ , and then triumphantly held up a pen. Castiel cocked his head to the side, but Dean grabbed his hand and guided it so it was resting on his lap, palm up, and scrawled a few words there in his sloppy handwriting.

“My address,” Dean said, putting the cap back on. “In DC.”

Castiel brought his palm close to his face. The words were barely legible, but he figured it was the sentiment that counted. It’d be weeks before Dean made it back to his apartment anyway. “Won’t your brother be staying with you?”

Dean threw the pen in the drawer and settled back in the bed, staring up at Castiel with a smirk. “I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can. Then we can play nurse and patient.”

Castiel shook his head, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Maybe Dean was faking it, but seeing him take everything this case had thrown at him in stride gave Castiel hope that one day it wouldn’t be fake at all. And maybe Castiel wouldn’t have to fake it either.

“I’ll make sure to buy one of those hats with the red cross in the front.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna look so hot in your suit, tie and nursing cap,” Dean drawled, biting down a smile. 

Castiel laughed. Privately, he was tempted to buy a nursing cap just for the hell of it, just to see the way Dean’s eyes would crease with laughter when he saw it. His heart jumped in his throat. Castiel had to be careful, or Dean would have him wrapped around his finger in no time.

“Try and get some rest,” Castiel said, and this time, he turned to leave for real. He had to find a change of clothes, take a shower, find Bass, do all the paperwork waiting for him, and he had to do all that today.

“Don’t be a stranger, Novak,” Dean shouted after him. 

Castiel wasn’t planning to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks!
> 
> I'd promised myself I'd pick a historical prompt or something sci-fi when I signed up for the challenge, but then the suspense prompts were posted, and I just couldn't resist. It was a great oppostunity to try my hand at writing a mystery after reading so many of them, and this one in particular was so fun to play with.
> 
> Tell me did you figure out who the killer was before the reveal? I hope I left enough clues to help you.
> 
> Come and say hi to me on [ tumblr ](https://kitmistry.tumblr.com/)!


	11. Tag, You're It!

Sequel is now posting! Find it[ here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891659/chapters/57437380)


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